


For What It's Worth

by toomanyguiltypleasures



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Incest, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Self-Mutilation, Sibling Incest, Stancest - Freeform, Substance Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanyguiltypleasures/pseuds/toomanyguiltypleasures
Summary: How many years had passed since they last saw each other? Now Stanley was arriving on the front porch of his brother's house in Gravity Falls. The signs posted around the property already told him that something wasn't right. Being greeted with a crossbow to the face only made the first impression worsen. But they could go to sleep and talk when Ford has had some rest. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. Stanley could only hope.





	1. Frostbitten Toes

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so this is something I'm going to be working on in my free time. I've just gotten into writing fanfics again and I don't have anyone to beta these scripts with. There may be some mistakes here and there but there shouldn't be many. Other than that, I want to say that I have the entirety of this fic plotted out but they will be coming out in chapters as it will be long. The content is going to be heavy, involving violence, substance abuse, and self mutilation. The tags are there and it will be labeled as explicit because of it, but that won't happen until later chapters. Right now, things will be pretty tame. Enjoy!

Through the wool socks and the insulated boots, Stan still had trouble feeling his toes. The snow around him was piled up mid-calf and only hid pockets he would fall into, bringing it up to his knee. Of course Ford had to call him out to Oregon in the middle of winter. He couldn't wait for things to warm up enough for him to at least be able to get his car down the road. But the plows didn't come within at least three miles of Ford's house, meaning he had to hoof it the rest of the way.

He was not even half a mile into the trek when he stopped being able to feel his fingers, another quarter of a mile before his toes lost feeling as well. It was tempting to stop and build a fire. Stan wanted to get some feeling back into his limbs before he kept going, the pain almost unbearable. The only thing that kept him from doing so was a short story, one of the few he actually read for school, about a man who had died in the woods trying to do just that. He couldn't remember the name of the story or the author, but the imagery it brought about was haunting.

If it was even possible, the air around him got even colder. He had to keep going.

With his hands stripped of his gloves and his frozen fingers tucked under his jacket and shirt, Stan managed to thaw out the digits no matter how much his cold skin stung his stomach. Once there was proper circulation back, he pulled his gloves back on and stuffed them in his pockets. He was probably a mile away from the house by now. Shouldn't be much longer. But with the stretch of white surrounding him, he couldn't even be sure he was going in the right direction.

It was a half hour later when he saw the house through the trees and it took every ounce of self restraint for him not to start running towards it. If he exhausted himself before he got there, he would have fallen in the snow and that would have been it for him. It was a slow crawl he was making towards the house, stopping every time the wind whipped in his face and stung his eyes, but he was making progress. Ten minutes later and he was in the clearing that the house was in.

The first thing he noticed was the barbed wired surrounding the property. No gate, fenceposts made of sticks, and chicken wire that the barbed wire was looped through. No way for someone to get in or out without getting hurt. It wasn't the first time Stan had dealt with barbed wire before but that didn't mean he enjoyed messing with it on a regular basis. He would have called out for Ford if the wind wasn't whipping up every time he took a breath.

Setting his bag down to the side, he walked along the fenceline and looked at the posts, reaching through the barbed wire without getting caught and shaking sticks. A couple of them were grounded pretty well but the third one he checked was loose. A few more shakes and it was digging itself out of the snow and bending the wires it was holding up. Stan winced as one of the barbs caught on his jacket, the down feather being the only thing that kept it from scratching him. He shook the stick a couple more times and he knew he could get himself over in that spot.

He slid his arm out of the loop of wire and went back to his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before returning to the loose post. Instead of reaching through the wire, he was able to guide the barbed wire away so he could reach over, pulling it down and towards the snow. Both the chicken and the barbed wire went with the post and he stepped on one end, lifting his leg over and into the clearing before jumping off. The post snapped back up with the tension of the chicken wire and hung loosely in the circle. Stan wasn't about to fix it. It was crap work anyway.

Past the barbed wire, there were warning signs everywhere. Both of the literal and metaphorical. _Stay out_. _No trespassing_. Getting a closer look at the house, there were more signs there and the windows were boarded up. Something had happened to Ford to force him to this state. What it was, Stan wasn't sure he wanted to find out. But his brother had asked for help and he wasn't about to turn around and run.

The hood of his jacket was pushed down and he mounted up the steps, taking in a deep breath as he looked at the door.

"You haven't seen your brother in over ten years... It's okay. He's family. He won't bite." Stan hated that he had to talk himself up just to knock on the door but it had to be done. He would have stood there as long as he could otherwise. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he knocked.

There was rustling behind the door before it flung open, the action startling him back before a bolt was shoved in his face.  _How did he get a crossbow?_ That shouldn't have been the first thought to come to his mind.

"Who is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!" Suddenly Stan regretted not just sitting there and waiting for Ford to come out without having knocked. If he did come out.

"... Well, I could always count on you for a warm welcome." Once the crossbow was set aside, Stan could get a good look at his brother. He was much different than the last time they had seen each other. He was older, his features weathered from stress. The first thing Stan did to try and rationalize was take a deep breath, but there was no alcohol on his brother's breath. So either he was using something worse or the situation was more than Stan could have ever imagined.

"Stan... did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?" Stan wiggled his toes in his boots as he stared at his brother, tempted to push past him and find the nearest source of heat.

"Yeah, hello to you too, pal." He didn't have to push past his brother as he was grabbed by the collar of his coat, a light shining in his eyes once he was past the threshold. Pain seared as his pupils contracted and he pushed at Ford's hands when he snapped to his senses. "Ah! Hey! What is this?" He glared at his brother, rubbing at his eyes with his gloved hands as Ford stepped back.

"Sorry... I just had to make sure you weren't... uh.. never mind." Stan watched as his brother turned away and retreated into his home. "Come in, come in..." Closing the door behind him, Stan set his bag down to the side and tried wiggling his toes again. Still no feeling. He needed to take care of it now.

"Look, I'd ask you what's going on here... you're acting like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee, but where's a heater? Or a furnace. Something." Ford didn't seem to notice what he was saying as he rustled through some papers on his desk, only turning his head when Stan started speaking louder towards the end.

"You seem fine. I need to talk to you about-"

"Talk to me after you've pointed me towards a furnace, Ford. I'm not exaggerating when I say I can't feel my toes." They stared at each other, Ford narrowing his eyes as Stan glared, before his brother finally relented. The papers in his hands were dropped and he waved his brother towards one of the halls.

"In my room. I've got one in there you can use." Stan followed Ford and looked around, papers strewn about everywhere and inventions cluttering different tables. He wondered what his brother had gotten up to there but he wasn't about to ask. Not yet.

His gaze moved about the bedroom as they walked in, landing right on the furnace and letting out a shuddering breath of relief. "Thank god..." Stan turned on the light in the room and went over, dragging a chair near the furnace before opening the door. There were embers in there, remnants of a log that had been tossed in before. Not enough for him to warm up to, but it could be fed. He grabbed a log from beside the furnace and tossed it in, sitting in the chair afterwards and tearing at his boots. Stan could hear his brother as he walked closer but his attention was on his feet. Once the boots and socks were off, even in the limited light the room had, he could see the condition his toes were in. Blue and numb to the touch.

"Jeez, Stanley... How long were you out there?" Stan sighed and rubbed a hand along his face before working at the other boot.

"Three miles. Most of the forest had two feet of snow and it doesn't seem like plows come anywhere near you. I had to hoof it." He took his gloves off and started rubbing at his toes, trying to get some feeling back into them even though the cold contacting his hands made him wince.

"Let me go boil you some water... we can talk in a little bit." Stan turned to look over his shoulder and he could see the worry on his brother's face. It made him smile that Ford was worrying about him now, glad for any help he could get.

"Thanks, Sixer." Before he turned his head back to pay attention to his feet, he could see a ghost of a smile tugging at Ford's lips before he retreated out of the room. Even after the grief his brother seemed to have gone through, Stan could still see the man he once knew. 

It was thirty minutes before his brother was back with a bowl, a tea kettle, and a towel. The kettle was set atop the furnace, the log inside starting to blaze nicely, while Ford handed the towel to Stan.

"Here. Hold onto this for a moment." They exchanged slight smiles before Ford took the kettle and poured some of the water into the bowl he brought. He stuck a finger in and shook it before taking the towel back from Stan. "How are your feet doing?"

"I'm getting feeling back... it feels like I'm being stuck with hundreds of needles, but that's better than nothing." It had been unbearable a few minutes ago but the feeling had calmed down since then. He watched as Ford dipped the towel into the bowl and wrung it out, handing it back to Stan when water didn't drip from it any further. It was hot but pleasant and just the heat from that was enough to make him slump back in the chair and relax.

"Wrap this around your toes. It'll hurt... but it'll help." Stan nodded and did as his brother told him to, bringing up one of his feet and wrapping the towel where he didn't have any feeling. It felt like the needles were sticking him worse and he hissed in pain, noticing how his brother flinched to the sound. Yet Ford still watched and waiting, Stan eventually relaxing as the needles started to fade and he could wiggle his toes and feel them. The both of them breathed a sigh of relief simultaneously and chuckled at the perfect echo.

"Y'know, I stopped feeling them about a couple miles back... I thought of making a fire to try and get it back but I think school managed to scar me for life." 

Ford stared at him dumbfounded, as if he was trying to put one and one together to make two but was failing. "How do those even correlate with each other?" Stan chuckled and shook his head, brushing a couple locks of hair out of his face.

"Can't remember which year we had to read it, but there was a story in English class... About a man who was walking through the woods in winter. He tried building a fire a couple times but failed. Ended up dying in the snow." Recognition sparked in Ford's eyes when Stan explained and the man shook his head, letting out a soft laugh.

"'To Build a Fire'... by Jack London. I remember how much you hated reading that."

"In my defense, it was an awful story. I couldn't sleep for a week."

"You had nightmares..." Neither of them had to continue to know what had happened in those days. Even as a high schooler, Stan had needed Ford to sleep with him in bed so he could sleep. The dreams had been of Stan in that same situation, dying alone in the snow because he couldn't build a fire to save his life. Sometimes the dog was there with him, sometimes it was Ford himself moving on without his brother. The latter always left him more shaken when he woke up. Stan never explained the content of the nightmares but Ford understood regardless and they slept cramped into the bottom bunk.

Stan tried to make light of the situation by laughing and joking. "I might have nightmares again now that I've been so close to the truth. Though there might not be room for me in your bed this time." He tried laughing it off but Ford expression tightened and, in the limited light, he could see the man's ears burn. They always got bright red before the color would move to his cheeks. Ford forced a laugh before standing, grabbing a chair so he could sit next to Stan instead of kneeling on the ground by his side. There was a slight tension in the air as they sat next to each other, staring at the furnace or some other part of the room, silence hanging in the air before either of them could manage to speak up.

"You had something you wanted to talk about?" Stan finally mentioned as he looked at Ford, seeing his expression tighten once more before his brother relaxed. Ford ran his fingers through his hair and fixed his glasses before folding his hands together.

"I did... I do. But I think it can wait a little while. Until we've both gotten some well needed rest." Ford turned his head and they looked at each other. They smiled and the tension seemed to drain out of the air as they relaxed around one another. In the morning, they would be able to talk about things. Maybe even catch up with one another before they got into the heavy stuff. Stan wanted to ask Ford what had happened since they last saw each other. But that would have to wait. "When you're done warming up, I'll help you set up a cot. You can sleep in here with me... The other rooms are cluttered up."

"Thanks, Sixer."

 


	2. Tomorrow Comes Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room was cold when he woke up, his brother's bed empty and the fire in the furnace burnt out. Stan's tired but he has to get up, hoping Ford has some water boiled at least and some coffee around. He wants to know what was so important for Ford to call him, but it seems like he's the only one that will be recounting the painful truths.

The wind outside of the window was the cause for Stan's arousal, the whipping against the boards and making a sound that dragged him from a deep sleep. His exhaustion from walking as far as he had in the freezing snow was what kept his sleep dreamless, no hint of the aforementioned nightmares that could have plagued him. Maybe he was too old to have them anymore. Even though he could have easily dropped dead in the snow over the past twenty four hours, he had pulled through. It was a victory in his mind and reality triumphed over nightmares. This time. He didn't want there to be a next time.

Rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, Stan tried moving around the small cot so he could stretch out his legs. He wiggled his toes and smiled at the fact he could still feel all ten of them. That was a relief. Stan figured there was a lot that had to be done today. Worrying about losing a toe was thankfully taken off the list.

Moving about a bit more, he turned to sit up and look towards his brother's bed. His vision was still blurry from sleep, and the lack of glasses he sorely needed, but he was able to make out his brother missing from the bed. 

"Sixe-" His call out to his brother was interrupted by a fit of rattling coughs, his throat sore from breathing in freezing air the day before. It took him a few minutes before the coughs were under control, curled up back in his cot so he didn't end up falling out of it. If his brother was up and about, he hoped he at least had some boiled or warm water. Coffee was what he desired at the moment but he would settle drinking just the water if it meant his throat would stop hurting.

The warmth from the blankets he had wrapped around him was the only thing that kept Stan hesitating from getting up, the air around him holding a cold nip. If it weren't for the pain in his throat and the tug at his bladder, he would have tried to go back to sleep and spent the day like that.

"Gotta drain the lizard..." Stan gave a hushed grumble before he tossed the blankets back and tensed as the cold air wrapped around him immediately, dispelling all warmth he had worked to keep. It was enough to wake him up further and keep him moving, standing up from the cot and wandering the halls to find a bathroom. He could hear something at the end of the hall but his urge to urinate was greater than his curiosity. When Stan found the bathroom, he tested the light and let out a sigh when they turned on. Electricity meant plumbing and plumbing meant he didn't have to worry about flushing.

Once Stan was finished up, he stepped out of the bathroom and looked towards the end of the hall. The noise was still traveling down the corridor but he could focus more on it now. There was a rustle of papers, some quiet grumbling, and he could hear furious pen scratching. With furrowed brows, Stan walked to the end and into the kitchen, seeing his brother huddled over his desk and writing something in a journal. Ford seemed too immersed to notice anything around him which made Stan hesitant to speak up. He'd interrupted his brother a few times in their lives when he was like this and Ford always snapped at him as if he was just a hindrance. Instead of saying anything, Stan stood under the threshold and rested his shoulder against the frame, only for the wood to give a creak and a groan. The noise was enough to pull Ford from his mania and he turned, Stan tensing when he saw the look in his brother's eyes. He relaxed only when Ford did, his brother setting the pen down and straightening himself out before turning fully so they could face each other.

"Did you sleep well?" Just as there had been worry in Ford's voice over his toes the day before, it was still there today. Stan was glad that Ford was still thinking about him but there was nothing to worry about. He'd gotten over the worst of frostbite, though he was going to be feeling it for a while after.

"Yeah..." His voice cracked as he tried to answer, coughing and having to clear it before any gravelly note had disappeared. "The blizzard woke me up. You know what time it is?" Stan watched as Ford shuffled some papers aside to get a clock, squinting at it as he read the time.

"About five thirty in the morning."

"No shit... Thought it was at least eight."

"That's just when you passed out last night." They shared a chuckle and stood there, looking at each other before Ford broke eye contact to set the clock aside. Stan's gaze moved towards the book and the papers on the desk, pushing off of the threshold before moving over to get a better look. He could see Ford tense as he picked up a few papers, though the man didn't stop him.

"This all your research?" There were drawings and graphs, words that were too blurry for him to be able to read at arm's length. Stan plucked Ford's glasses from his nose and slid them on, finding the world clearer but still having trouble reading it at arm's length. He had to bring it closer, and even then, there were words on the page he didn't understand. One clarity was gained only to reveal he lacked knowledge for another. Joy.

"It's not all of it.. Just what I've been gathering the past few weeks." Ford shuffled some other pages around and closed his journal, pulling another page from a stack he thought would be easier for Stan before handing it over. "I've seen a lot since I've moved here... things you wouldn't imagine."

"I can imagine it. You were always the brains, I was the creative." Not entirely true, but they smiled at each other knowing the fallacy that was. "This was what you wanted me to help you with?"

The smile dropped from Ford's face when he mentioned it and his heard turned away, causing Stan's own smile to slip as he set down some of the pages. Even though Ford had asked for his help, it seemed that things were either too uncertain or painful for his brother to dig through them right now. When Ford did look back to him, the smile he gave was forced.

"We can talk about that later... Why don't we sit down and catch up first?" Stan nodded and handed Ford his glasses back before moving towards a metal table with a couple chairs, every surface clogged and cluttered with papers and inventions. He moved everything off of the seats and piled it on the table before sitting down, his brother joining him in the other.

"Alright... what do you want to know?" Stan leaned back in his chair and rested an arm atop the papers on the table, watching as his brother fiddled with his fingers and avoided eye contact. It was no wonder why things were tense when thinking about how long they had been apart, but that didn't mean he wanted to deal with it. It felt like a solid minute before Ford spoke up, though his gaze was still elsewhere.

"How have things been since... then?" The occasion in question was one neither of them needed to mention, though the thought of it was enough for tension to rise a little more. Stan's gaze also moved away and he rubbed at the back of his neck, debating if he should tell his brother the truth. It was obvious things didn't go well for him, but Ford didn't need to know everything... right?

"Things were... bad." The truth it was. "I spent the first year living out of my car for the most part. I made money scamming people, got kicked out of a couple of states, and traveled around the country. I went overseas over the years too, but I never did anything worthwhile. Ma always said I had personality, but when that's all you have, there's not much you can do in the world. I got into a lot of trouble some years, spent at least half a year in three different prisons for petty crimes. I had to do a lot to survive." But he wasn't about to tell Ford the worst of it. He kept it dumbed down so his brother wouldn't think about it too much, but just one look at Ford and he knew the man was worrying about him more than Stan wanted.

"Oh, Stanley..." That was all Ford said, but the tone of his voice let Stan know that he was being pitied for what he went through. He didn't want his brother's pity and the look he was being given made him want to go back to the cot and hide under the covers. Maybe the world would swallow him up so he didn't have to think about how badly he messed up his own life. He let out a huff of a sigh and tried waving off the feeling of inadequacy before looking at his brother.

"Things are going to get better. There's always darkness before the light, right?" Even though they were meant to be words of assurance, the both of them seemed to know there had been too much darkness and not enough light with what Stan had been through. He needed a change of topic and needed it fast. "What about you? What have you been up to?" Ford tensed when the light was suddenly shone on him, again breaking eye contact as he looked towards the stacks of papers.

"I went to college... studied hard and got my doctorates three years ahead of schedule. I got grant money so I could study and do my research and I brought it all up here... There's a rich history of the strange and unexplainable and I found it, Stanley... I found things that no one thought to be real." There was a smile on Ford's lips and in his voice as he seemed to think about the beginning of his venture there. Stan knew that there was more to it if his brother had surrounded the house with signs and barbed wire, but he wasn't sure if he was about to get that information out of him. Still, he had to ask.

"Did you call me up here to help you with your research?" The smile faltered on Ford's lips when Stan mentioned that and he was certain there was more to the story that he wasn't being told. Ford looked towards him before bowing his head and nodding it to the side.

"Something like that... But there's not much we can do with the storm outside. Might as well wait a few days before we got to doing anything." That was when Stan knew that he should drop the questions for at least the time being. There was nothing more he was going to get from Ford and he knew he would push his brother away if he badgered him with questions. Silence hung in the air between them for a moment, the wind whipping outside of the house being the only sound to travel through the halls and the room.

"I've got one more thing to ask you and then we can fix something to eat." Ford raised a brow as Stan spoke and they looked at each other.

"What's that?"

"You've come across a lot of weird since moving here. In what damn culture does pointing a crossbow in someone's face make for a proper greeting." The tone of Stan's voice made the serious question seem anything but and easy smiles broke on both of their lips. They didn't stop themselves from laughing.


	3. When the Lights Go Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has been there three days already. It's the first time the power has failed yet he doesn't notice for a while. Ford has been occupying himself with his research and Stan is trying to catch up, reading through the journal Ford has and some of the papers. He has questions, but will they be answered?

At first, Stan thought that there were lightbulbs that needed replacing. He had wandered into a couple of rooms in the previous days and found some lights working while other's didn't. Ford explained that he kept forgetting to replace them. How long had he gone without light in these rooms and still managed. Stan thought he had replaced all of them when he tried the light in one of the halls and nothing happened. He only hoped that his brother had some spares lying around that he hadn't used already.

Stan passed through the kitchen to get to the closet so he could search, only stopping when he noticed how silent it was. The storm was still going outside, worse than the day before, but under that there was nothing. He couldn't even hear his brother, wherever he was in the house. Stepping towards the fridge, Stan placed his hand on the side and hoped to feel the slight hum that came with a running fridge. Nothing. He opened the door and no light came on.

So this wasn't a case of a blown bulb. How long had the power been out without either of them noticing? He would have thought it was only a matter of minutes but the fridge's temperature had climbed to what the house felt like. Still fairly freezing but not cold enough to keep things from spoiling. Well, what little there was in there. Ford had a lot of dried foods around and they had been eating them for the past few days.

With a sigh, Stan closed the door to the fridge and decided to go looking for his brother. The house wasn't that big and there weren't that many crevices Ford could have crawled into. He searched the ground floor first and found no sign of his brother, checking into every room with a flashlight before moving on. Climbing the stairs towards the attic, he could hear slight movement and muttering from behind the closed door. Stan almost wished it was a squirrel so he could have something happen in the house instead of being bored out of his mind. He was greeted with the sight of his brother on the floor, lying on his back in the middle of room with papers strewn about around him. Stan looked at the walls to find a clutter of other papers pinned up, string linking some together or just hanging from the pins.

Stan wasn't able to say anything before Ford noticed him, the two of them looking at each other as he walked into the room.

"You doing alright here?" Stan asked as he walked in, taking a seat next to Ford on the floor as his brother turned his gaze back up towards the ceiling. He felt like the question was a ridiculous one. No one alright would be in the middle of this mess. But he learned long ago not to assume anything about his brother when it came to whatever he was studying. He may make a mess with his papers, but it was organized in some way. At least it was to Ford.

"I'm fine. Just... thinking." But it didn't look like he was thinking. It looked like he was trying not to think, to empty his mind so he didn't have anything to worry about. His look was far off as if he was trying to stare past the roof, his breathing steady, body completely still as he laid there. Stan recognized this from every time Ford had finished working on a difficult problem. He would lie there in bed the same way and let his brain shut off so he could have some rest. Only, looking around, the problem he had seemed everything but solved.

"Okay... The power's out."

"I know. It has been for a few hours." Stan's brows furrowed and he shook his head.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were out getting firewood. I didn't notice when you came back." 

"Because you've got your head buried in your books. You'd freeze to death if I wasn't taking care of you."

"I'm not the one that keeps using up the logs. And I managed fine on my own before." Even though Ford's voice was still as calm as it had been when he first spoke, Stan felt the sting from those words. At that point, he knew he had to drop the topic because it would go nowhere. Anything he said about it after would be reason for Ford to decide to distance himself once again. Because he had been fine on his own. There was no need for Stan to be there if he could survive like that again. Stan looked away from his brother and waited a minute before speaking up again.

"There anything you need help with?" Ford shook his head as Stan asked, closing his eyes and stilling himself once more. Stan watched him for a few moments before deciding to lie down next to him, his hands resting atop his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. Unlike Ford had been doing, Stan was focusing on the lines in the wood, his gaze moving down along the sides of the roof before meeting some of the papers. There were a lot of them, none he could read from this distance. Some had pictures he recognized, most didn't. He would have wondered how much Ford had written down seeing as there was more up there to go along with what was lying about the house, but he didn't have to. He had gone into room with boxes stacked upon boxes and knew they held all different kinds of files and reports. Ford always had been one to overload himself.

Stan looked around some more and leaned up on his arms a little, his eyes squinting as he looked at one of the drawings on the wall. It was familiar, that was for sure. But he remembered there was a name that had gone along with it. A people name that seemed to stick out from all of the storybook names he had read about through the journal.

"Bill..."

All it took was that one name for Ford's eyes to snap open, a hand shooting out to grab Stan by the wrist and squeeze. The suddenness of the action had Stan jumping and tensing, looking down to his brother and almost recoiling at the manic look in his eyes.

"What did you say?" Stan tried to tug his wrist free from his brother's grasp, only to find all five fingers and his thumb tightening around to keep him there. He didn't know what it was that was so wrong about that, especially since the book hadn't covered much. There was a lot scratched out, the drawing of the triangle with an eye faded, and the name written out neatly above it. Was that was this was all about?

"Bill... he's in your journal. I saw the triangle with an eye over there and just..." There wasn't much else he could think to say. At least, nothing that would calm his brother down from where he was at. The look he had was still bordering on mania as the grip tightened around his wrist, only to fall as his hand did. Ford looked back up towards the ceiling and the distant look in his eyes was back.

"Oh..." Ford didn't say anything after that for a good minute and Stan was unsure if he wanted to ask more about it. But if that was causing his brother all sorts of anxiety and stress, then he wanted to know what happened.

"... What is he?" Stan finally spoke up and broke the silence, his brother's breath hitching when he spoke yet his eyes kept that thousand mile stare.

"He's a demon... from some other dimension. I've dealt with him and he's... pure evil doesn't begin to describe him."

Over the few days he had been there, Stan wasn't sure if he could believe in anything that Ford had written down or seen. He tried, he really did, because his brother was never quite the good artist before but these drawings were so vivid and detailed. Either things had changed that much over the years or he had something to look at and mimic from. Stan wanted to believe it was the latter, but there was no other proof except for everything that Ford had written down. The former was more believable for him. Especially now that there was a mention of demons and other dimension. That was almost too unbelievable for him to imagine.

Maybe this was all in Ford's head. Maybe the stress from trying to search so hard for the supernatural made him snap. That would explain all of the dangerous precautions and his paranoid behavior. Some people just couldn't deal with the stories their minds created for them. Stan was hoping he was dead wrong, and he would keep acting like he was wrong so Ford didn't push him away for not believing.

Stan laid back down on the ground next to his brother and stared up at the ceiling. "Is that why I'm here?" He didn't bother looking at Ford as he asked this time, only hearing his brother as he shifted about on the ground.

"Yes... I need your help." At least Stan had gotten an admission to what he was doing there. But he wasn't sure if the help he thought Ford needed was the same as what Ford wanted.

* * *

Stan had some trouble sleeping that night. They went to bed around the same time, Stan getting into his cot first but Ford being the first to knock off. He stared up at the ceiling for the amount of time he was awake, thinking about his brother, his mental state, and who Bill was and why he would have had such a profound impact on his life. Ford must have been hurt badly for his condition to be this severe. There were so many questions and yet no answers. He would have wracked his brain all night if sleep didn't eventually take him.

The dream he had felt real. It felt like he had gone to sleep and woken up without anything disturbing him, starting with his morning as he had the past few days. The power was back on and he went to the bathroom before coming out to start boiling water and look for his brother. He found Ford sitting at his desk, writing something in his journal as he did every morning. Usually Stan didn't want to bother him so he kept his distance until Ford came out of his trance.

This time he walked up behind his brother and looked over his shoulder to read what was there on the page. His vision was clearer than it had ever been but there were no words for him to read. Only eyes and triangles, triangles and eyes. His brows had furrowed and Stan reached out, calling his brother and asking if anything was wrong.

The face that turned to him was Ford's, but the eyes weren't. They were a pale, glowing yellow with slitted pupils. A broad grin spread across Ford's lips and his brother laughed, his voice seeming to have an electronic echo behind it. Stan didn't know what was going on but he knew that wasn't Ford sitting at the desk.

He woke up like that. Eyes wide as he stared into the dark, unable to catch his breath as his body broke into a cold sweat. His hands grasped at the bedsheets and he tried to ground himself, tell himself that it was a dream. Though he didn't understand the contents, he knew it couldn't be real. Those eyes were something that shouldn't exist.

What he thought to be an irrational fear gripped at him, however, and he was unable to calm himself down from his spook. Slowly sitting up in the cot, he looked towards the bed and saw the outline of his brother fast asleep, his face pressed into the pillow and one of his hands hanging off the side of the bed. Stan was moving before he could stop himself, pulling the blankets off of the cot and wrapping them around himself as he moved over and stood at the edge of the bed.

"Sixer...?" He spoke in a hushed tone, hoping Ford was awake so he could either talk to him or ask him something. What he wanted to say or ask, he wasn't sure. But he didn't have to think of anything when he got no response in return, realizing his brother was asleep. Stan didn't want to wake him up from that.

But he didn't want to go back to the cot, and dragging it over would make too much noise and would pull Ford from his sleep anyway. Stan did the next best thing. He wrapped the blankets tighter around his shoulders and sat down on the ground, making sure he was covered completely as he rested up against the side of the bed. Hesitantly, he rested his head near Ford's hand and pressed his forehead slightly to the appendage. Ford didn't stir and his hand didn't move so Stan kept his head right where it was. That small contact was enough for him to relax further and fall back asleep. This time, his sleep was dreamless. No pale eyes, no echoing laugh. Just darkness he could sink into so he could forget the dream.

* * *

The next morning, Stan was awake before Ford was. Sometime during the night, Ford's hand had made its way into his hair, tangled in the long strands and pulling slightly every time the man moved. Stan was more than comfortable with this contact and regretted when he had to pull away so he could go to the bathroom. The blankets were taken off of him and he tossed them onto the cot, looking back to Ford as the man slept in almost the same position he was when he had woken up in the night. It was the first morning where Ford hadn't gotten up before him and Stan was glad for that. He wouldn't have to explain himself if Ford had been up first.

He reached out and his fingers brushed against the top of his brother's hand, smiling softly at the way his fingers twitched and curled into a gentle fist. Ford's breathing jumped slightly and Stan knew that it was only a matter of time before he woke up. His hand was pulled away and he made his way out the room and towards the bathroom.

When Stan's back was turned, Ford's eyes opened. He watched as Stan left the room, staying still until he heard the foosteps travel further down the hall. Ford took the hand that Stan touched, that he had woven into his brother's long hair when he had woken up an hour ago, and curled it into a fist. The fist was brought to his lips and he held it there, wondering what would have happened if he had said something. If he had let Stan know he was awake.

 


	4. Bruises and Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is sick of doing what Ford does in place of a shower. It's been a week and he's just gone with the flow that his brother has worked himself into, wiping himself down with a wet washcloth when things get pretty rank. The power is finally back on after it going out the second time this week and he wants a shower. The water heater is working just fine and he's taking advantage of that. Maybe he should have closed the door before he started.

It was hard for Stan to be surprised when he looked in the sink's cabinet and saw more than a couple boxes of unopened bars of soap. There was a bar that was already in the shower but it was old and cracked, even though it was only halfway used. He was a little disgusted that his brother had gone so long without taking a proper shower and found it a little hilarious that he was disgusted. In their youth, Stan was the one that hated taking showers and would be fine with sleeping in dirt while his brother needed to bath every night. How positions had flipped on them. But he would be damned if he was about to go another day now just wiping himself off with the towel like he'd seen Ford do every so often. They hadn't talked about the plumbing and the water heater, but after Stan let the water run for a little bit, he found everything working just perfectly.

Which meant he could finally stop feeling grimy. The only problem he now faced now was how little he wanted to take off his own shirt and look at himself. He could wash himself with his eyes closed, he'd done it before. But that was just running away from the problem he was living.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Stan looked at his reflection under the light and inspected himself. The older Stan got, the less fat actually stuck to his face when he gained weight. It had been a while since he shaved so he had a bit of a scruffy beard. It made his face seem rounder than it actually was and he wanted to get rid of it. Digging through the cabinets, he found his brother's razor and decided to make use of it.

Though it was difficult for him to shave without any cream to help keep it smooth, it wasn't the first time he'd done it. Over the years he had some practice with it and managed to finish the job now without nicking himself too bad. There was a little blood from where he got himself on his right cheek and on his chin, but two small rips of toilet paper helped to wipe that away and keep the cuts from bleeding anymore.

Once that was done, he looked at himself more clearly and the lines from age and exhaustion were too noticeable on his face. Maybe the hair was just hiding how weathered he was from years of pain and problems. Maybe next time he wouldn't shave so he didn't have to see how haggard he was starting to look.

But that was for another time. It was said and done already. Stan took a moment to look at the length his hair had grown to and how awful he thought he looked with a mullet. Once upon a time, it had looked like a proper mullet and was equally as stupid looking with the front hair trimmed nice and short. Now he just looked like a man with long hair and bangs. He'd have to take care of that later, but not on his own. He tried cutting his own hair once and that had turned into a mess he would never forget.

Still he had yet to take any of his clothes off to get ready for a shower. Stan was biding his time so he didn't have to look at himself in the mirror, knowing how awful things had been and not wanting his visage to remind him of every single mistake he had made in the past ten years of his life. But it had to be done. And after a few moments, he finally pulled off his shirt and stared at himself in the mirror.

The first thing that entered his mind was that he had gotten fat. Stan always tilted more towards the heavy side since he was younger, but he had gotten fatter over the years. His poor diet was due to the lack of funds he had for proper meals and the only exercise he got was when he was running away from someone. A repetitive cycle of that over the years was what gave him his heft and he felt ashamed it had gotten this far.

That coupled with the somewhat thick and unruly body hair he had was something he tried to poke fun at. How had he not turned into a grizzly bear by now? If he could laugh at himself, maybe things would be easier for him to deal with. Laughter was always the best medicine, but the only smile that came to his lips was one of pain and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying. Stan told himself the moment he was kicked out of the house that he was a man and men didn't cry. Those words never stopped him, but he tried his hardest to keep things stifled now, especially if Ford was to come by.

Looking past his weight issue and along his skin, Stan tried counting the number of scars he had gained over the years. There were some stab and slash wounds when he got into a back alley fight over something stupid or over payment for a job he did, shank wounds from his first time in prison where he pissed someone off, and a couple bullet wounds from jobs much worse than the rest. Each one had a story he clearly remembered, ones he'd rather forget.

A sigh escaped and he was about to take off his pants when he looked in the mirror, jumping when he saw Ford from over his shoulder and standing in the open doorway. His brother's mouth was open slightly and Stan knew what he was looking at, ready to throw himself into the shower half dressed if it meant hiding his lifetime of mistakes.

Ford tensed when Stan noticed him and his mouth snapped shut, the two of them standing there and staring at each other through the mirror. The silence held a great deal of tension before someone spoke up.

"When you said the years were bad... I didn't think like this." Ford took a step into the bathroom, his gaze dropped towards the side as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Stan tried to force a smile and to make a joke about it, wanting to say that it looks worse than it was, but all that came was the pained smile. His head bowed and his hands gripped the edge of the sink.

"I had to do a lot of things, Ford... Sometimes it got me hurt. But I survived." Barely. There were times Stan had thought about just giving up, resigning to the fact that his life was going nowhere so why waste the time. Every time he thought that, he would call Ford up just to hear his voice. And once he heard that 'hello', he'd hang the phone right back up. Even if his brother had moved on with his life, Stan didn't want to leave him alone in the world. He didn't want to feel so alone in the end.

Ford moved closer and his fingers brushed against a bullet wound from two years ago, a scar that healed well along his left hip. Stan tensed to the touch and Ford's hand pulled back just slightly before he smoothed it out along the scar again. Forcing himself to try and relax, Stan took a deep breath in and looked into the mirror, seeing the question on his brother's face without it having to be said.

"A through and through... That's the exit wound... I had to steal something for this mob guy. Thing is, I wasn't told the guy I was stealing from was packing heat." Ford nodded slightly as they kept eye contact through the mirror, moving his hand up from Stan's back to his ribs where there was an ugly scar. Once again, Stan could see the question. "Six years ago... first time in prison. I got on the wrong side of this one guy and he had someone try and shank me. It didn't get between my ribs, but it was a big mess." Ford pulled his hand away and took a step back. Stan could see his brother's gaze moving along his body before their eyes locked in the mirror again.

"Show me the rest." Ford's voice was steady as he spoke, as if there was conviction behind it. A desire to see everything that he had been through and Stan felt like he was baring himself naked before his brother without removing anything else. His grip tightened on the edge of the sink and his knuckles went white before he let go. Ford wanted to see everything. He was going to let him, no matter how much it hurt either of them.

Turning around, Stan looked away as he faced his brother, revealing all of the scars he had on the expanse of his stomach and torso. Some were covered by body hair, others were visible through it. But there was enough for Ford to see and for Stan to feel ashamed of. When nothing was said, Stan picked his gaze up and looked towards his brother, only to see Ford covering his mouth with a six fingered hand as he looked at all the scars he could see. Once more, Stan's back tensed and he wanted to jump into the shower and hide himself away. He kept his feet planted so he wouldn't run from this, though the urge to do so only hiked up when Ford stepped closer to him.

If he followed his brother's gaze, he would have known which scar Ford was looking at. Honestly, he didn't even have to do that to know which one he was probably staring at. The gnarliest scar he had on his body was on his stomach, five inched away from his navel. It was a bullet wound, but instead of being a clean scar, it was torn, jagged, much larger than the actual bullet was. Ford's hand moved and brushed over the wound, making Stan flinch. This time, his hand didn't pull away as he brushed his thumb along the edge of the scar.

"What happened...?" The question Stan was seeing on his brother's face was finally voiced, though the sound of it made him feel much worse than looking at his brother and knowing what he wanted to ask. Stan swallowed roughly as he looked down to the scar, one of his hands twitching before stilling. He wanted to hold his brother's hand. He wanted to find some comfort after being so long without it. This little touch was both helping him and hurting him and he wanted to do something back. But he wanted Ford to stay there as well. So he merely answered.

"I got shot... It wasn't a through and through that time but it wasn't deep enough to hit any of my organs. I was by myself and I didn't want to drag myself to a hospital... So I dug my fingers in and tried to tough through the pain. I wanted to get the bullet out... and I did." It only cost him a decent amount of blood and cause a wound that would heal up in the ugliest way possible.

Ford's hand stayed over the wound and Stan tried to regulate his breathing even as his brother's thumb brushed along a sensitive ridge of the scar. Things were quiet for a little while, as if there was so much to say but not enough time to say any of it. Stan wanted to pull away and do what he was in the bathroom to do, but at the same time he wanted to hold onto Ford as tight as possible, as if the man would slip from his grasp the moment he let go.

"I'm so sorry, Stan..." The words left Ford's lips and broke the silence, making Stan tense and his teeth grit as he could feel tears start stinging at his eyes. The sobs wanted to work their way past his lips but he didn't want to let them. He didn't want to break down in front of his brother when Ford had called for help. His lips quivered as he closed his eyes and his brow creased, trying to tighten his features so he wouldn't let any of the tears slide down his cheeks. He leaned his head close and rested his forehead against Ford's, his hand finally moving to close over top of his brother's and squeeze it.

"I'm here now..." With his brother, the only person he never wanted to be away from. One of the very few people that mattered to him more than anything in the world. "Things will get better." Stan could feel Ford's hand turn in his own grip, but instead of pulling away from him, their fingers entwined slight and Ford squeezed his hand back. That action was enough to keep him grounded, and though it cracked through his resolve enough for Stan to let a tear slide down his cheeks, he was able to smile without expressing any pain behind it. He opened his eyes to see Ford smiling back at him, though his brother's gaze was on their hands.

When Ford looked up and their gazes locked, the smile on Ford's face dropped and his eyes widened. Ford's breathing hitched and he closed his eyes, opening them after a few seconds and looking back at Stan.

"Stanford...?" his voice cracked as he spoke. Stan's smile fell in that time as Ford stared at him. Their hands were pulled apart, Ford stepping back and walking out of the bathroom as quickly as he could. Stan was left there to stare at the empty threshold, his hand held out as if he was trying to grab for the man that was already gone. He had to grit his teeth again to stop the tears, only this time it was accompanied by a vice like pain in his chest, almost enough to make him double over.

He waited a little before closing the bathroom door and undressing himself the rest of the way, climbing into the tub and turning the shower on. Stan sunk to the bottom of the tub and sat there with his back up against the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs as he curled up into himself.

* * *

As painful as the moment had been, Ford didn't want to pull away from Stan. Holding his brother's hand in his own, feeling the closeness between them after so long, he could have stood there the rest of the day and been content. There was a part of him that yearned for more, to hold onto his brother so they could shoulder each other's pain, share it and help each other, but he held himself back. They had been apart for so many years. Just as Stan didn't want Ford to pull away, Ford didn't want to scare Stan away either.

But when he looked into his eyes, Ford's heart nearly stopped. Instead of the eyes he knew, eyes that were much like his own, there were replaced with a pale, glowing yellow with slitted pupils. This couldn't have been some trick. There were precautions all around the house so Bill couldn't get in. He couldn't have gotten to Stan ever since his brother stepped foot in there.

After blinking hard, those eyes were gone and Stan's eyes were back. But Ford couldn't stick around. He couldn't be around Stan after having seen that. He couldn't let Stan shoulder that burden and be driven as mad as he was going. And so he left his brother standing there in the bathroom. 

Ford needed something to chase those eyes away. Now that he had seen them, he though he could feel them watching him all over the house. There was no way Bill could have gotten in but he could still feel the fear grabbing at him and pulling him down into the depths of his mind.

He needed something to chase the feeling away.

He needed anything.

He grabbed a bottle.


	5. Pain, Pain, Go Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For hasn't been able to get Bill's eyes out of his mind. Seeing them in Stan's eyes was enough to make him desperate to block Bill out. He knows rationally that Bill can't get through, but his paranoia sends him off the deep end. The only relief he feel he can find is at the bottom of a bottle.

It had been two days since they last held a conversation together. Ever since what happened, because something _did_ happen, in the bathroom, Ford started avoiding Stan like the plague. Throughout the morning of the first day, it was subtle. Stan thought that Ford was burying himself into his work to the point where he wasn't hearing anything else around him. It happened a few times before and he was used to his brother doing that. But even when Ford wasn't working and Stan tried to ask him a question, he'd go off somewhere else and leave Stan in the dust.

Stan assumed immediately that it was because Ford was put off at the closeness that was between them in the bathroom. That Ford knew Stan wanted to keep him there and was repulsed by any ideas that entered his mind regarding it. It had hurt him then and it hurt him now to think that he was going to lose what he had worked up for this past week and a half, the relationship that he had tried to mend between them. 

The second day, Ford had locked himself away in the attic for the most part, only coming down when there was a need to be met before going back. Stan only caught glimpses of him and he hated that they couldn't talk about it and get through it. He wanted some resolution to be made even if he had to compromise. If Ford wanted him to leave because of what happened, then he wanted to be told that upfront so he wouldn't be left to torture himself with his own thoughts.

That night, Ford didn't come to bed around the time he usually did. There had been a couple nights when his brother tried to work through, organizing his research and connecting pictures and graphs on the walls of the attic. Stan would go to him those nights and tell Ford to go to bed, that exhausting himself wasn't going to do him any good. Even though his brother was reluctant, Ford always stopped there and went to sleep.

As much as he didn't want to be shooed away by his brother, Stan knew he had to go and see what was keeping him up. And if he wasn't keeping himself up, then where would he be sleeping if not in his room?

Stan took a few minutes to stare up at the ceiling and listen to the house, trying to find any noises that came from inside and could tell him where his brother was. There were creaks and groans from the wind hitting the house, something banging outside as a gust caught it, but nothing else. Which meant that he had to get up and look for him.

Tossing back the covers, Stan sighed and grabbed one of the blankets to wrap around his shoulders. The log in the furnace was burning low but it was too late in the night for him to throw another one on. He would have rather stayed in his cot to try and keep himself warm but he worried for Ford.

He didn't have to look for long, or even go that far, until he found his brother, stepping into the kitchen to find him bent over the table with papers thrown about. It was too dark for him to notice much else until he got closer, accidentally kicking an empty bottle that was lying on the floor. His brother groaned and moved on the table but didn't try to get up or say anything. Brows furrowed, Stan bent down and grabbed the bottle he kicked, trying to see what it said in the limited light. When that failed, he sniffed the opening and his head jerked back a little.

Whiskey. Strong stuff, too. Like the kind their pops drank every Sunday night or when he was with company. The only problem was that their father had a tolerance that was as tough as as sturdy as a brick shithouse. Ford, on the other hand, was the biggest lightweight Stan had ever known. The one time they steal some beer from the fridge when their parents aren't around and Ford was out like a light after one.

Even though they hadn't been around each other for so long, he could tell his brother wasn't a heavy drinker. At least, that's what he hoped for.

Setting the bottle aside, Stan walked over towards Ford and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, shaking it slightly.

"Hey, Sixer..." That got a noise out of him, as well as a small swipe of his hand. It was slow enough for Stan to dodge it and he patted his brother's shoulder. "C'mon... let's get you to bed." That earned another swipe that Stan dodged as well, though it sparked some irritation within. Stan groaned and pulled his brother's shoulder so Ford could lean back, only for the smell of whiskey to smack him in the face when Ford was sitting up. Stan hoped the empty bottle that his brother had drained wasn't full or else he would be in for a world of trouble when he sobered up.

"Son of a bitch, Ford... You reek." His brother's glasses glinted in the light as Ford turned his head to look at him, a whine escaping from the man before he turned his head away. Even if Ford was avoiding him because of what happened between them, that didn't give the man an excuse to drink himself into a stupor.

Of course, there was an enormous amount of hypocrisy behind that thought as Stan had entertained getting wasted afterwards. But he didn't know where Ford kept the liquor, if he had any, and he wasn't about to go searching then.

Turns out Ford had alcohol, though he might be out after the bender he seemed to have gone on.

Stan tried to grab Ford and sling an arm over his shoulders so he could help the man up, only for Ford to pull away and try to lie back down on top of the table. The irritation Stan felt started to grow as he caught Ford, pushing him back in his seat and getting a glare from the man. He glared right back and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"Listen here, pal. I don't care if you're going to drink yourself silly because of that shit that happened in the bathroom. You started it by touching me so you've got no room to be a dick about it." That was how Stan was going to rationalize it at the moment, though he knew how sick his own feelings were. He wouldn't be surprised if Ford found them just as sick and rejected him, assuming it already happened. "But even if you're going to wallow like this, at least find your way into your bed. Because you're going to hate yourself when you wake up and fall over because you're so hungover you don't know where your own two feet are."

Ford's eyes narrowed at him, though the expression was less of a glare and more of deep thought. Well, as deep as he could go when he was as drunk as he was.

"Touchin' you...? S'not..." Ford slurred as he spoke, his thoughts seeming unclear even as he tried to spell them out. "M'not drinkin' 'cause of that." Stan's brows furrowed as he looked to his brother, unsure what to make of what was just said.

"Wait... what?" Ford righted himself a bit more as Stan asked, rubbing a hand along his face and making his glasses askew, not bothering to fix them afterwards.

"What happened... I liked it. I didn'... I don' like that you suffered. But touchin' you... holdin' your hand was nice. I wanted it..." Ford trailed off there and he almost fell out of his chair, Stan catching him at the last moment and righting him up.

"Then what's this all about?" Stan held Ford up in his chair with a hand pressed to his brother's chest, knowing that if he pulled away, the man would topple right out and hurt himself. That was the last thing he wanted to happen right now. Instead of Ford responding to the question, he whined and draped an arm around Stan's neck, moving to the edge of his seat so he could hoist himself out of it a little.

"Bed first..." That was all Ford said as he leaned almost all of his weight on Stan, the two of them stumbling a little as Ford forgot where his feet were before he found his footing. Nothing else was asked as Stan led him out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, depositing his brother down on the bed and helping him get at least partly undressed. Ford sat up on the bed as Stan undid his shoes and pulled them off, taking off his brother's trenchcoat afterwards and tossing it to the side. When Stan went to remove Ford's glasses, Ford closed his hands around Stan's and squeezed, them, stopping him from pulling away. Stan stood there for a moment and looked at him, Ford's gaze seeming hazed but focused as they looked at each other. He could feel how heated his brother's face was from the alcohol and knew that it would be best if he went to sleep.

"You gotta let go of me, Ford. Lie down and sleep it o-"

"I'm drinkin' 'cause of Bill..." _Oh._ That was unexpected. Maybe he would be able to get some answers out of Ford like this. Stuff like who this Bill was, if he was a demon or a person, and what he had done to him to make him this way. Stan pulled his hands away from Ford's face and set the glasses on the bedside table, only to sit down next to him on the edge of the bed.

"What happened?" Ford wavered where he was sitting up before steadying himself as best as he could, running a hand over his face and trying to sober up.

"In the bathroom... I saw Bill's eyes in yours. He's more than just a demon... he can go into people's minds and control them. He can do all kinds of things and destroy people. He tricked me into lettin' him in... I tried Bill proofin' the house, but I saw his eyes then... and I started hearing his voice in corners of the house. I know he's not here, but I needed to get rid of it. Drinkin' makes the voices go away." Stan listened and was sure that his brother had been traumatized in some way. Whether it was like how he described, he wasn't sure. There was no proof other than what Ford was saying and he found it difficult to believe him the longer he saw how he acted. Something was definitely not right with Ford, but whether it was real or a product of an ill mind, he couldn't say. All he could do was try to believe him. The doubt must have been on his face when Ford looked at him because the man's brows furrowed and he whined again. "You believe me... right?" Stan paused and took in a deep breath before nodding his head.

"'Course I do. You'd never lie to me." And yet Stan was lying to him now by saying he believed him. But Ford took that and smiled slightly before he laid back on the bed. Stan looked down at him and moved to get up, only to feel fingers curl around his wrist and keep him there. Looking back down, he could see the pleading look on his brother's face.

"Can you stay in bed with me...? Please...?" Whatever Ford was going through was bringing out a desperation that Stan hadn't seen in years. The last time Ford looked at him like that was when he had an anxiety attack months before the science fair that changed their lives. Ford never explained what it was about, but the look on his face said that he needed someone to ground him. And Stan couldn't say no to that.

Stan pulled his wrist out of Ford's grip and tossed the blanket he had wrapped around him on the cot. He maneuvered his brother so that he could pull the sheets of the bed back and tuck Ford in. That pleading look was still on his face until Stan got in right next to him, the two of the lying down so they could face each other. There wasn't a lot of room on the bed but there was enough for them to have some distance between them. Ford took one of Stan's hands and entwined their fingers together, bringing it up so he could have them near his face. Smiling to the action, Stan closed his eyes and squeezed his brother's hand. There was silence for a few minutes and Stan thought Ford had fallen asleep, ready to let exhaustion take him in the same way before the other spoke up.

"You're not goin' to leave me, right?" The question was a surprise, but the answer Stan gave was immediate and true.

"I'll always be here for you, Sixer."


	6. Steeling Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the night of binge drinking, Stan expects Ford to be either in bed or in the bathroom when he wakes up. Finding him in neither place, he goes on a hunt throughout the house to try and find his brother, only to end up in a room he didn't know existed. What he finds there is horrific, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is where the self mutilation comes in. The depictions will be a little graphic and if you're not good with vomit or self operated cranial surgery, you might just want to skip this chapter. If you're fine with it, then please do enjoy. Well, enjoy as much as you can. Also, if anyone complains about Stan getting the elevator to work without knowing the keypad combination, remember that dipper, mabel and soos got down to the portal without knowing. And if you guys don't know what Ford's trying to fix, it will be explained in the next chapter.

As terrible as it was for him to hope for, Stan woke up expecting to hear the sound of retching coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall. It would mean that Ford was up and able bodied enough to take care of the massive hangover he should have been suffering. Stan had fallen asleep ready to deal with the inevitable. But upon opening his eyes and listening for the sound, he was only greeted with the quiet stillness of the house. The storm outside had died down and the wind was now nothing more than a gentle breeze, meaning he could hear if something was going on in the kitchen if he was quiet enough. Yet there was nothing for him to focus on. No footsteps, no stumbling, not even the pen scratching against paper that would tell him Ford was hard at work.

Sitting up in bed, he looked around the room hoping that Ford wasn't on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. Thankfully, that was not a sight he had to face. Not yet, at least. He reminded himself that there were hallways and other rooms he might find Ford in, though he hoped not in that situation.

The imagery that thought brought about was enough for Stan to almost launch himself out of bed, grabbing a flashlight and searching throughout the house. Usually when he couldn't find Ford, the man was either at his desk or he was messing around in the attic. Those were the first places Stan looked and both were dead ends. So he started looking through the rest of the house, opening almost every door and shining his light in every room. The largest, yet most cluttered, one was where he planned to look last, knowing that it was mainly Ford's storage space for his experiments, gadgets, and whatever papers that had no relevance to his current research and couldn't fit in the rest of the house.

Opening the door, Stan peeked his head around and shone his light in, seeing dust particles in the air that were long since undisturbed until now.

"Sixer?" He called out to Ford as he stepped in, glancing around boxes and gadgets, making sure his brother wasn't collapsed on the floor, asphyxiated by his own vomit. The thought and imagery sent a shudder along his spine and made him press forward. There was nothing and no one behind the boxes, telling Stan that his brother was most likely not inside the house if he hadn't found him anywhere else.

He sighed and turned towards the door to head back into the rest of the house, only to see a light shining from underneath another door that was to the left. Because Stan had only been in there a couple times before, both with Ford and both in limited light, he had never noticed there was something there. Hesitantly he moved towards it and opened the door, looking down the poorly lit hallway and shining his light down. All he could hear was the buzzing of the lights in the ceiling but it was more than he had gotten in the rest of the house. If Ford wasn't down there, then he would have to go outside and start looking for him.

_Please don't let Ford be outside._ He knew he wasn't mentally stable enough to find his brother in any state but hungover, and going to to look for him in the snow would end up being his breaking point.

Stan took a deep breath before entering the hallway and walking down the stairs, looking at the peeling wallpaper every so often before focusing on where he was going. He descended down the steps until he got to an elevator, looking at the keypad that was to the right. There were some strange symbols written on the buttons, something he recognized from one of the pages in the journal, but nothing he could put together on his own. Instead of trying to punch in anything, he grabbed the sliding door to the elevator and opened it, the car there and lit as if it was ready to take him down.

Unsure what to make of there being more than one level to this elevator, Stan decided to try his luck with the first one. If his brother wasn't down there, then he would move onto the next. Then the last one. And if there was no sign of him there, then he would start panicking even more.

The elevator gave a jolt before it started to descend, stopping only a few seconds later in front of a metal door. Both the car door and the metal door pulled away at the same time, leading Stan into a room lit with fluorescent lights. Before he even stepped into the room, he could hear curses coming from the other end, telling him that Ford was in there. How long he had been there, Stan wasn't sure. But it didn't matter as long as he was alright. He felt he could relax as he stepped in, shutting his flashlight off and heading towards the curses.

Stan had to stop after ten feet, however, the intermingling of two distinct causing his stomach to turn over and nausea to grip him. The first smell was of vomit and sick. Which was understandable when thinking about the state that his brother was probably in. If he didn't end up throwing up whatever was in his stomach after how wasted he was, Stan would think there was something wrong with him.

But the other smell was antiseptic. One he neither expected nor understood the reason for it being there. The latter confusion was dispelled as he stepped closer, though the scene in front of him explaining it only made the situation worse by tenfold.

Ford was sitting at a table, his back facing towards the elevator and still dressed in the clothes that he had gone to bed with. As Stan drew closer to the table, he could see his brother's hands were up and messing with something on his head. His focus was split between what Ford was doing and breathing through his mouth, trying to dispel the nausea he was feeling by cutting out the smell as much as he possibly could. Even though he was able to push it down some, he was able to see through the mirror Ford had in front of him what was going on.

What little food he had the night before threatened to come up.

In the mirror, Stan could see Ford's hands working at his forehead. They were gloved and covered in blood, both holding tweezers yet neither of them were holding the same thing. One was holding back a flap of skin that Ford seemed to have cut out from the top of his head near the frontal lobe while the other was fixing this metal circle to his skull. The bone was in plain view for Stan to see, as well as the blood that was coming from the wound Ford had inflicted upon himself. Stan sucked in a horrified gasp before retching. He had seen some gruesome sights in his own life, especially when he had to dig the bullet out of his own stomach. But the operation Ford was performing on himself mixed with the smell of vomit and antiseptic was enough to make Stan almost purge everything that was in his stomach.

The gasp and noise caused Ford to stop and the man turned around, Stan's eyes widening as he saw the wound up front instead of in the mirror. It made the situation more real and he wasn't sure if he would be able to hold himself together.

"Stanley? What are you doing down here?" Ford's voice was too calm for the situation and Stan was about to lose his mind before he saw the needle and syringe on the table. What Ford was doing with any kind of anesthetic was beyond him, but it was no wonder why his brother wasn't in agonizing and crippling pain. But that didn't make things any better. Stan had to catch his breath, though when he inhaled, he found himself unable to exhale without having to purge. There was a bucket near the table, already filled a quarter of the way with Ford's own vomit, but it would do better than letting it out on the floor. Stan almost lunged for it, tripping over his feet as he scrambled and bent his head over, letting out everything until he thought he was done. The bucket was pushed aside and he looked up to Ford, the man staring at him as if Stan was in the wrong.

"What am I-" Stan could barely believe he was being asked that, trying to catch his breath as his voice cracked from sheer panic. "What the fuck are you doing?!" He threw a hand in Ford's direction and gestured to the operation the man was performing. Now that he was this much closer, he could see his brother's face was pale behind the blood that was running down from the wound, vomit and blood decorating the front of a once clean shirt. Whatever Ford was doing, he didn't seem to have thought every aspect of it through.

"I've no time to explain... I'm almost done." With that, Ford turned back towards the mirror and messed with the metal circle in his skull while Stan sat there on the ground horrified. It was only a matter of seconds later when Ford pulled the hand that was messing with the circle back, the tweezers being dropped onto the table with a metal clatter. "There..." He let go of the flap of skin that he was holding back with the other and those tweezers were dropped in the same manner. "All done."

Stan wanted to scream at him. To ask him what he was doing, why he was doing it, and how far gone was his mind that he thought this was an answer to anything. But all he could do was stare as Ford turned back towards him, cleaning off some of his face with a towel he had on the table.

"If you don't mind helping me, Stanley, I'd gladly appreciate it... My hands are shaking too much for me to sew this up myself." Stan tried to snap himself out of the trance he was in and looked at his brother's hands, seeing that they were indeed trembling far too much for him to do much of anything.  He wasn't sure if his own would be much steadier at the moment, his arms felt like they were going to give out as all the blood rushed to his feet and told him to run. But he got up regardless of how ill he felt, swallowing and letting out a shuddering breath.

"It's because you let yourself bleed out too much..." He tried to steady his voice but it was impossible, looking to the table and seeing the entire spread that Ford had set out for himself. There was a surgical need and thread set out so the man seemed prepared enough for that, but the thought that he would do this, on his own especially, was maddening. Yet Ford just smiled to him as if he found the answer to a simple problem he once thought to be impossible.

"I know. Can you do it?"

Stan grit his teeth as he tried to compose himself, knowing that if he didn't do this now, it would get much worse with time. He'd sewn up some of his own wounds before in worse conditions. At least there was something to clean the wound with there. Grabbing a couple of latex gloves from the box that Ford had on the table, Stan slipped them on and wiped them down with rubbing alcohol to try and sterilize them as best as he could.

"I can do it." Those were the last words exchanged between the two of them before Stan got to work, gritting his teeth throughout the entire procedure as he sewed the skin flap back into place. Ford had the knowledge and decency to shave part of where he was operating so it made things easier for Stan, finishing up within a matter of minutes and setting the needle and remaining thread aside once everything was fastened. He could barely breathe from the smell and the stress, his hand shaking once the needle was out of his hand. Stan tried to regulate his breathing, to find a calm state amidst this chaos, and managed after a few minutes of standing there, his brother staring up at him. Looking to Ford, he offered a hand for the man to take so he could help him out of his chair. "C'mon... let's go get you washed up."

"Okay, Stan." Ford took the offered hand and stood up. Once he was on his feet, Stan brought the man's arm over his shoulder so he could help him to the elevator. They went up and back towards the main part of the house, heading straight for the bathroom so Stan could clean Ford up and wipe all of the blood from him. He would have gone and cleaned up the tools and pail of vomit while Ford showered if he wasn't terrified of leaving the man on his own.

Stan knew he couldn't let Ford out of his sight now. If something like that was to happen again, he wasn't sure what he would do. Already, he assumed his brother was ill. Stan didn't want to take a chance to let anything happen to him again.


	7. Fevered Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a miracle that Ford didn't get an infection after the impromptu surgery he performed on himself. But maybe that's thanks to Stan's fussing over him and making sure that it was clean every couple of hours. Still, because he was up and about and walking around in the cold without much on while he was hungover, he wasn't lucky enough not to catch something. Stan's fine with doting on his brother, but he's given answers he's not sure he wants to hear.

The night of the operation, after Stan had taken care of his brother and cleaned up the room, Ford wasn't given a choice in having a bedmate or not. After being scared near half to death and facing a sight he wished he never had to see again, Stan wasn't about to let his brother do anything without him being right by his side. Under better circumstances, he would have thought of some excuse to sleep next to Ford so he could have the closeness as well as a real bed. But now he was just scared of letting Ford do anything on his own. He had his arms wrapped around Ford and barely slept even as the other did, listening to his breathing and checking up on him every five minutes to make sure nothing had gone wrong.

During the next day, Stan refused to let Ford wander off anywhere without him following around, checking the wound every couple of hours and making sure to change the bandaged. There weren't many that he had to work with so he had to keep washing them before they could be used again. Ford tried rejecting the help every so often but one glare from Stan and the conversation ended there. He was allowed to continue taking care of his brother as long as he didn't interrupt whatever research he was doing. Ford had yet to tell him why he had dug into his own skull like that, clamming up when Stan tried pressing the issue just once. He used the excuse that Stan wouldn't understand why, that it was something he would never have heard of nor would have believed. He could only assume it had something to do with Bill, especially since his brother didn't seem to remember telling him about it when he was drunk. Stan didn't bother pressing again after that.

A couple of days after the incident, Stan woke up next to Ford, his brother's face flushed red and his breathing ragged. The first thing that popped into his mind was that the wound was infected. As much as he fought to stop that from happening, sometimes there was no way it could be predicted.

"Hey, Sixer..." Stan sat up in bed and placed a hand on his brother's shoulders, Ford groaning slightly before looking at him, eyes half lidded and brows furrowed from discomfort. The bandages he wore around his head had stayed in place throughout the night, though they loosened a little as Ford tugged and scratched them near where the wound was. "Hey - no. Can't do that." Stan moved his brother's hand away and Ford looked up towards the ceiling before closing his eyes.

"It's fine... I won't break the stitches." Though that was a concern, the flushed face and the itching seemed to point towards an infection. He wanted to check that immediately to see if he was right or wrong. Hopefully wrong.

"Alright. But you gotta sit up. I need to take the bandages off and check it."

"It's too early." That in and of itself told Stan that Ford was sick, seeing as the man was out of bed by five in the morning almost every morning. And looking at Ford's watch on the bedside table, he could see it was almost seven.

"Look, I'll let you go back to sleep. But you've gotta do this for me." Ford's eyes opened and they exchanged a glance before he sat up, wavering as the room started to spin. His brother pressed a hand to his own forehead before feeling it with the back of his hand, brows furrowing as he looked back to Stan.

"I'm sick..?" Stan gave a half hearted smile and a huff of a laugh.

"Took you long enough to figure it out. I need to make sure you've got a cold or if the wound's infected. You gonna let me do that?" Ford didn't hesitate in giving a slight nod, allowing Stan to start unwrapping the bandages and setting them aside. He took the gauze that was pressed over the wound and looked at it, his hands cupping his brother's cheeks so he could be turned towards him. The skin around the stitches was a little red and swollen. It wasn't bad, but the determining factor was how it smelled, especially if he was going to refrain from poking at something that was surely to be painful. With his hands still cupping Ford's face, he leaned in and pressed his nose to the hair above the wound, breathing in and checking to see if it smelled awful.

All he could smell was the shampoo he made Ford use after he showered the night before. That was good. He let go of Ford's face and sat back down on the bed, shaking his head as they looked at each other.

"It doesn't smell infected but it's a little red. Probably just irritated, but I'm going to check on it more frequently now."

"So I'm just sick?"

"Probably." Both of them breathed a sigh of relief at that. A cold was much easier to deal with than an infection, though they would still have to work hard to make sure nothing happened to the wound now that Ford's immune system was working overtime. Stan offered him a smile before getting up out of bed, pressing lightly at Ford's chest with his hand when the man tried to follow him. "No you're not. Unless you've got to go to the bathroom, you're staying right here."

"I'm sick, not incapacitated."

"They might as well mean the same thing when I'm around. I don't want you working yourself to the bone and making it worse." Ford gave a weak glare at him before leaning his back against the headboard of the bed, resigning to the fact that there wasn't much he could do like this anyway. "I just want you to be alright, Sixer." At that point, Ford smiled to him slightly and nodded his head.

"I know.. but can I get up to take a shower at least? Or are you planning on giving me a sponge bath?"

"Hey, you were doing that all on your own before I came here. I'm almost certain you would rather one." If Ford's face could have gotten any redder, it would have as the man looked away from him and shuffled slightly in bed. The smile was still on his lips, but Stan's gaze dropped as well and he rubbed the back of his neck. "I won't stop you from showering. But I'm not leaving you alone in the bathroom... I don't want you slipping and hurting yourself." Their gazes met at that point and a flush crept to the height of Stan's cheekbones. Of course it would be ridiculous for him to stick around like that. Even if he was just thinking of his brother's safety, maybe it was a bit over the top.

"Alright." He was surprised that Ford agreed to it, but when the man tried standing and found himself unable to get very far, Stan knew he needed to be there for safety's sake. Helping Ford to the bathroom, Stan started the shower and waited for the water to warm up before he turned to go sit on the toilet seat lid. His back tensed as he saw Ford stripping himself of his clothes when he turned around, the two of their gazes meeting before breaking as their heads turned away. Stan grit his teeth before forcing a smile as he tried to laugh off the embarrassment.

"This isn't weird... we're brothers. We've seen each other naked before." Hell, Ford saw him half naked not too long ago. 

"Yeah... we're brothers." Ford echoed that bit yet still it took a moment for them to look at each other. They both tried to smile before Ford walked past him, stepping into the shower and leaving Stan standing there. He stayed in his spot for a moment before sitting down on the toilet, his back resting up against the tank as he listened to his brother move.

Things were quiet for the most part. Stan could hear Ford moving and washing himself, neither of them saying a word. Honestly, was there anything to say? His gaze moved towards the shower curtain and he could see the outline of his brother because of the light, watching the man for a moment as he stood under the spray of the water. Stan curled a hand into a fist and pressed it against his leg, pushing down the desire to pull the curtain aside and get a good look at Ford. He wanted to see him, all of him. But he had to restrain himself.

Stan was snapped out of the trance he put himself in as Ford moved about, sitting down in the tub and moving to lean back against the wall closest to where he was sitting.

"You alright there?" Stan asked, once more tempted to pull the curtain back and look at Ford, this time out of worry instead of desire.

"You asked me why I did the surgery after you helped me stitch it closed..." Stan tensed slightly but nodded his head, only realizing a moment after that Ford didn't see it and he had to speak up.

"Yeah... I did." He could hear Ford sigh on underneath the sound of the water and he wondered what he could possibly be said about it. If there was any sense to be made about it.

"Have you ever heard of trephination?" Once more, Stan shook his head and had to stop and correct himself.

"No."

"It's an old world practice... used by some tribes in the past and maybe some today. You drill a hole into your skull and it opens your spiritual sense. It makes it easier for a person to see the spirits and communicate with them. Bill... tricked me into doing it to myself. He said it would make possessing me easier. I'm not sure if that's true or if he was just messing with me..." Stan's stomach turned as he thought of the hole in Ford's skull he saw the other day but he pushed down any nausea he was feeling. Taking a deep breath, he tried to force down his disbelief as well. If it was true, then it was a good reason for Ford to be as paranoid as he was. If Bill existed as a real demon, then he was a danger to anyone who came in contact with him.

But if this was just Ford's inner demon, then things were worse in a different sense. He would have to talk to Ford about seeing a doctor, if he hadn't seen one already, and getting analyzed. He needed professional help if things were going to get any better.

"Stan...?" Ford's voice snapped him out and he nodded his head, running a hand along his face as he cleared his throat.

"Sorry... It's hard believing people would do that to themselves..." But people did much worse with far greater destructive consequences. Taking a deep breath, he looked back towards Ford's shadow in the curtain. "So you were... what? Closing the hole you made?" The thought of Ford doing that to himself in the first place made his stomach toss and turn again. He'd seen too much already so the imagery was clearer than he wanted it to be.

"Yes.. Bill shouldn't be able to get in here... but now he shouldn't be able to get into my mind at all." For a number of reasons, that rationalization was worrying to Stan but he wasn't about to speak up against it just yet. Ford was alright at the moment. Stan wasn't about to let him get hurt or hurt himself again.

"Alright. That means no more self-operated cranial surgery for a while. At least a week." He tried to make light of it even though his own face was contorted with worry. Hearing a small laugh on the other side, he was glad Ford took what he said easier than Stan was taking it himself.

"Okay. I promise it won't happen." That was as good as Stan was going to get short of tying his brother down to the bed to keep him from mutilating himself.

Once Ford was done showering, Stan helped him dry off and go back to the bedroom, dressing him in clean clothes before getting him in bed again. The rest of the day was spent with Stan taking care of Ford, making sure he drank and at least ate a little in between sleeping off the cold. Every hour he checked the wound and the bandages, making sure things were clean and nothing was irritated. He slept in Ford's bed again that night, arms wrapped around his brother to make sure he would stay there. To ground them both and make sure he was alright.


	8. Don't Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few days pass, the cold seems to have gone and Ford is feeling better. Stan stops breathing down his neck over every small thing and they've started talking more casually. Instead of focusing on Bill, Ford has been telling Stan of the rest of the wonders he has come across. Even though things have gotten better, they still share the same bed every night. It's become a comfort to the both of them. Maybe more.

After the first day, the cold seemed to disappear. Ford's temperature was down and the redness and swelling along the wound had vanished completely. Stan still made him take it easy so he didn't exhaust himself sick again. The day after, Ford was completely recovered and Stan let him go back to his research, though he still kept a close distance. After seeing his brother with his head torn open, just being out of sight in another room terrified him. Every time he walked back, he feared that Ford would be doing something else to himself. Something much worse than what he witnessed.

It took another couple of days for Stan to push the panic aside and get himself together, letting his brother have the distance he wanted so he wasn't suffocating him. In the time he gave his brother the distance he wanted, they started talking. It wasn't about anything important at first. Stan went through the journal and chose the seemingly nicer of the creatures Ford recorded for them to talk about. His brother told him about his experiences and went into great detail about patterns and behaviors. The intricate details were enough to almost make him doubt that his brother was mentally ill. Even though Ford always had a tendency to be creative, this was almost too much for one person think of. If things kept on a good note when the snow melted, maybe Ford could show him everything was real.

But that was a while off. Until then, they talked about gnomes and giant bats, merpeople and fairies as well. Ford wasn't obsessing over Bill and his research and Stan was able to relax. Things had calmed down and went back to normal, or about as normal as things had been on their good days.

Except the cot had been put away when Ford got sick. Stan didn't want it lying around for either of them to trip over if he wasn't going to sleep in it again. He had stuck by Ford's side to keep a close eye on him during the illness and didn't want to pull away from that once he was all better. Sharing the same bed meant more than safety and reassurance.

When Ford started to get better, they slept back to back. The only contact they had before going to sleep was the way their feet brushed up against each other. Yet every morning, they woke up wrapped around each other, Ford's head tucked under Stan's chin and Stan's arms wrapped around his brother's waist. Stan seemed to be the first to wake up those mornings, keeping his arms wrapped around the other until he felt him stir. Then he reluctantly pulled away and got up to get the day started. No matter how much he wanted to spend the day with his brother there, things were finally going well. He didn't want to ruin it.

Almost a week passed since Ford had gotten sick and they were sleeping in the same bed again. The turned in around the same time they usually did, lying down with their backs faced towards each other and their feet touching. Ford seemed to fall asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow while Stan had trouble drifting off. It felt like an hour passed and nothing happened. No exhaustion, sleep only a distant thought. Turning onto his back, he stared at the ceiling in the dark and his fingers toyed with the bedsheets. He entertained the thought of getting up and walking around, finding something to do until he was tired, but he didn't want to wake Ford up by moving around.

Staring up at the ceiling, Stan closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. He remembered someone telling him at some point that if he couldn't sleep, he could focus on one problem and he would find himself tired by the end of it. It took a little more thought before he realized it was Ford who told him that. Every time Stan had trouble sleeping when they were younger, he would call for his brother from the bottom bunk and try to start a conversation. A few times Ford had told him to do that. He tried each of those times, but it always ended up with Ford giving him a problem and the two of them talking about it until he passed out. He would tell Ford in the morning that he was bored to sleep and they would share a laugh.

Stan tried to think of a problem now. Something that he had to think about that wasn't too impossible for him. Math and science were out of the equation almost immediately and he didn't read all that much. His time spent with Ford now was the most he had read in years. The only problem he could think about was the one he was living right now. If Ford was ill was the biggest question he had but that wasn't something he could determine on his own. And the desire for closeness he felt with him, the desire for so much more than what they had done and what they were? That was something he didn't want to think about. No matter how much he wanted to be more with Ford, after so many years of wanting it, there was nothing he could do.

They were brothers. That was all they ever should be.

He let out a soft exhale and rubbed a hand across his face, his body tensing when he felt movement from the other side of the bed. His head turned and he saw Ford moving about so they could face each other. Ford's features were relaxed and it seemed like the man was still asleep, his cheek pressed against the pillow as he kept his hands tucked to his chest. The bandages were still wrapped around Ford's head to keep the wound covered, but other than that, nothing seemed out of place. Stan curled the fingers of one hand into a slight fist as he looked as his brother, only to uncurl them and reach out. The back of his fingers brushed lightly against Ford's cheeks and made the man's face pinch. Stan's hand jerked back and rested it on his stomach. Ford's eyes, reflected in the limited light that streamed in from the window, opened and they looked at each other.

"Stanley...?" Ford spoke quietly and Stan smiled slightly to him before turning so they could face each other fully.

"Go back to bed. Sorry I woke you up." If he did. Ford didn't seem like he heard a word Stan said, his eyes shutting slowly before opening at the same pace. It looked like his movements were in slow motion as sleep seemed to try and drag him back down into its black depths. It was amusing and Stan would have laughed if he didn't want Ford to go back to sleep.

The man gave a soft groan and a six fingered hand wrapped around one of Stan's bringing it up between them as Ford moved closer. Stan stayed stock still as Ford made himself comfortable, their foreheads resting against each other on Ford's whim. His eyes opened slowly again and the two of them looked at each other. To Stan, the world seemed to stand still like that. It had always been like that whenever they shared a bed. Time slowed down around them when Stan was looking at him and he thought the moment would last forever. He wanted the moment to last forever.

But it always broke. Whether it was one of them going to sleep or conversation starting so they wouldn't fall asleep on each other, that moment always broke. Stan was waiting for it to do so when Ford's head tilted closer.

Stan's breath caught in his throat as he felt Ford's lips brush up against his, his eyes widening and his hand squeezing Ford's just slightly. He felt unable to react until Ford pulled back, his gaze seeming more than just tired as they looked at each other again.

"Sorry..." Ford mumbled softly and tried to pull his hand away from Stan's, only for Stan's grip to tighten. There was no hesitation as he moved, leaning in to kiss Ford in the same way they just shared. Their noses brushed up against each other slightly, and unlike how the action was only one sided before, Ford returned the gentle embrace. The kiss was lazy, chaste, and they separated after a while and smiled at each other. There was so much to say and yet so few ways to put it. Stan wanted to ask Ford what this meant, how long he'd wanted to do that, and why he decided to do it now. But Ford closed the distance between them more and tucked his head under Stan's chin, the same position they had been waking up in for the past few days. Ford let go of Stan's hand so he could wrap an arm around his waist, Stan's doing the same as they held each other.

"I like these dreams..." Ford muttered once more before Stan could feel him fall back asleep. That simple statement only brought more questions to Stan's mind yet limited where he could find answers. Ford had mentioned dreams in the plural which meant that he had more than one like that. If he did, how long was he having them for? Were they in the same boat or were they both drowning in a sea of uncertainty with no land on the horizon.

There were so many problems Stan could work with now but none of them would quiet his mind or calm him down. Unlike the nights he had trouble sleeping since he got there, Stan was unable to fall asleep until morning came. Even then, his eyes were closed and he was wide awake. Instead of pulling away when it was around the time he had been getting up, he stayed in his position and waited. He knew it was deceitful and betraying to pretend to be asleep, but he wanted to know how Ford felt. Stan knew there would be consequences to pay later if he ever came out about it to his brother, but he was willing to pay them.

As soon as he felt Ford moving about under his arm, Stan closed his eyes and pretended to be fast asleep, his body limp and lax and his breathing slow and regulated. Ford seemed to still after a moment of movement before he could feel the man pulling away. Stan expected his brother to get up and get started with his research once he was out from under his arm. With his eyes closed, all he could do was speculate what was going to happen.

It took every ounce of self restraint he had not to react to the hand that suddenly rested on his cheek. A thumb brushed along the stubbled skin before moving to his head, pushing some of his hair back and out of his face. Fingers returned to his cheek and brushed once more, the touch lingering for a second and then retreating completely. He could feel the bed move as Ford got up and listened to the footsteps as his brother walked down the hall. When he heard movement in the kitchen, only then did Stan open his eyes and stare out the threshold of the bedroom. He could feel the ghost of his brother's fingers brushing along his skin still and moved a hand to touch his own cheek. Suddenly he regretted not having moved. It was a missed chance to show his brother that he didn't need to hide anything. It was a missed chance for Stan to stop hiding himself. They could have talked, tried to figure out if this was worth it, if there was something more they could have than just being brothers.

But the moment was gone. He knew they needed to talk eventually. But exhaustion finally took him over and he rested against the bed, fingers curling and gripping the bedsheets as an outlet of frustration. If they were going to talk about anything, Stan figured he needed to be at least somewhat well rested before things got serious. He needed to anticipate the severity of whatever talk they had before they had it.


	9. You're My Medication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford's paranoia returns and started to get bad again. They need to talk and Stan mentions something that makes Ford snap. All in all, shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this was plotted out to be a pretty violent chapter. It's only physical violence, but someone gets their face beaten in pretty well.

It was foolish for Stan to think they could talk things out before the situation got worse. Well, foolish of him to think it would be calm for a couple more days. As Ford started getting his energy back, things started to pick up. His nose was buried back in his research and he was locking himself in the attic for longer periods of time. The two of them were still sleeping in the same bed, but now they woke up separate from each other. Ford was always on the edge, curled around himself, while Stan faced his back. Once more there was a distance between them and Stan was hoping it wasn't because of that dream. But the last time he assumed it was because of them, he was proven wrong.

So while Ford would lock himself up in the attic, he started going through every single box he could get his hands on. Every paper, every chart, every little scrap there was that had something about Bill, Stan collected it. It was tempting for him to travel to the other levels of the basement but if Ford found him there while he was looking, the situation could get much worse. Everything Stan fought for was to have a place in his brother's life. He couldn't be pushed out again, especially not when Ford needed his help the most.

Just as the journal was filled with lengthy details about the creatures he came across, every paper Stan found about Bill held a similar amount of detail. Some seemed almost kind while others were filled with malice, explaining the "demon" in a number of ways. He was able to chronologically order the papers, the kindest being the earliest and the nastiest being the most recent. In ordering them, he could see the downward slope in his brother's sanity as well.

But this was too much to be real. It was impossible for one being to be capable of the things Ford wrote about. Stan knew they had to talk, but what he wanted to mention would have to wait. It may never happen as long as his brother got the help he needed.

It was a week after Ford's behavior started to slope that Stan stood outside of the attic door. More than a month since he moved in with Ford in an attempt to help him. They had their ups and downs, but all their cards needed to be laid out on the table. He needed to know his brother would eventually be alright, because he sure as hell wasn't now.

Hesitantly, Stan raised a hand and knocked on the attic door. He heard cursing from behind it and papers scattering about, brows furrowing as he went to try the knob. Unlike the past few days, it was unlocked and he opened the door.

"Stanford?" Stan peeked his head around the door and looked into the room, seeing his brother moving along the walls and fixing strings to pins. He was muttering something unintelligible, his focus completely on the papers in front of him instead of hearing Stan's voice. Walking in, Stan closed the door behind him and looked about the room. It was in a greater state of disarray compared to the last time he saw it, the stacks of paper that had been piled now spilled over the floor. There were different colored strings everywhere, some in their balls and some just hanging out, waiting to be tied to another pin. Ford stepped on a few of them and almost tipped over when his heel landed on a ball of string. Stan jumped to try and catch him but Ford righted himself. Still, the man didn't seem to notice him. At this closer distance, however, he could hear what his brother was saying.

"Running low on food... can't go out. He's waiting outside. I have to do something. I can't let him back in. He can't come back. I can't let him in. He can't come back, can't come in, can't come back..." It was manic muttering, sentences choppy and strung together as if his thoughts were leaving him verbally the moment they popped into his head. Stan stared at him and his hand clenched into a slight fist as he stood there in the middle of the room.

"Stanford!" He called out in a loud voice, the volume and tone being enough to snap Ford out of his trance to look at him. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, as if he had stopped blinking almost entirely. Ford stared at him and dropped some of the string he was holding before turning back to the papers.

"What do you want, Stanley?" He went back to fixing some of the pages pinned to the wall, picking up a string different to the color he was holding and tying it to a couple pins. Stan stood there with his gaze fixed on his brother, trying to sort out in his mind how he wanted to say what needed to be said.

"We need to talk."

"Can't you see I'm a little busy?" Ford's tone was sharp and dismissive and it only fueled the anger he felt towards being shoved aside as well as the worry he held for his brother.

"Yeah, busy running yourself into the ground." His tone of voice was just as sharp as he was given and he took a step closer to Ford. "We need to talk _now_. It's important."

"What _I'm_ doing is important. Whatever you've got to say doesn't even add up to this." That made Stan snap and he stepped towards his brother, grabbing the ball of string from his hands and tossing it aside. Ford spun around and glared at him, shoving his hands at Stan's chest and pushing him back. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Ford nearly hissed at him, but they needed to face each other. He wanted to throw the question right back in Ford's face, to scream at him and tell him he's being irrational. But that would only escalate the problem. So Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, opening them back up to lock gazes with Ford.

"Are you on anything?" The question he posed had Ford taken aback, brows furrowed as he didn't understand what he was being asked.

"What?"

"Are you taking anything, Stanford?"

"What are you talking about? What could I possibly be taking?"

"Drugs, Ford! Or medication! Something because this is abnormal behavior even for you." The volume of his words dropped slightly as he looked around the room and gestured to the mess it was. "Some days you're fine. You're calm and we can hold a good conversation and it seems that things have settled. But then you go ahead and lose your shit like this. Suddenly everything seems too much and you end up running around like a chicken with your head cut off. Not to mention the drinking-"

"That was once, Stanley." Ford interrupted with a bitter tone and Stan could feel his brother's glare without having to look at it.

"And it led to the shitshow of you cutting your fucking head open!" The volume hiked back up and he scrubbed a hand over his face, brows furrowed in anger and teeth grit as he tried to keep himself from spewing out every thought that entered his mind. "Even if that didn't happen, you're fine one day and then you're insane the next. So either you're taking something..." His volume decreased and he looked at his brother, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Or you're off of something you need."

That seemed to get Ford's attention. The man stopped glaring at him but his stature seemed to tense, a sharp gasp being sucked in as if he'd been burned.

"You think I'm crazy..." Stan tried not to wince at that, stepping forward and closer to his brother as his hands uncurled from their fists. He reached out and placed a hand on Ford's shoulder, squeezing.

"I think something's wrong, Ford. I don't think you're crazy... but I don't think you're well." His voice was soft as he spoke, trying to keep eye contact with his brother but failing when Ford's head bowed. 

"You think I'm ill..." Ford's voice was soft, and Stan squeezed at his shoulder as if to try and assure him that he was there. Maybe he would have seen the hit coming if he wasn't so focused on telling Ford things were going to be okay. But before he could say anything, a six fingered fist connected with his jaw and sent him staggering back. His lip split open at the impact and he caught himself from falling over, staring at Ford as his brother's head picked up and his eyes were wide once more. "How dare you even think that!" Ford lunged and Stan stepped back, dodging the next few punches that were thrown his way and trying not to trip over the loose paper that was strewn about the floor.

"What the hell, Sixer?!" That name seemed to send Ford into a flurry of anger, his punches getting faster and forcing Stan to bring his arms up to block them.

"Don't fucking call me that!" Ford acted like a man on a rampage as he kept swinging and Stan knew he needed to stop him before either of them got hurt. He blocked one more punch before socking his brother in the stomach, causing Ford to double over in pain, his knees hitting the floor. Stan rubbed at his jaw where Ford had punched him and stepped closer to his brother.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He looked down at Ford as the man was bent over, but just as he didn't see the first punch coming, he was completely oblivious of the hand that snapped out and grabbed at his ankle. One sharp tug while he was standing on paper and that was all that was needed for Stan to hit the ground hard, the back of his head smacking against the floor.

"You're what's wrong with me!" Because of the smack to the head, Stan was too disoriented to block the punches as Ford straddled over him, only have enough sense to grit his teeth so he wouldn't bite through his tongue or cheek every time he was struck. Fighting back wasn't something he was ready to do the more his head spun and his vision blurred. "You ruin my life by thwarting my attempt to get into a good college," _one blow_ , "you use me every chance you get to be noticed," _another blow_ , "because you," _another_ , "have," and _another_ , "nothing!" One more blow and Ford stopped, panting as he straddled Stan's stomach and sat on top of him. Stan's face was bruised from being hit so many times, sporting multiple shiners and bleeding from his mouth, nostrils, and a gash made on his cheek. His lips were split in a few areas and his nose needed to be set, but Stan couldn't focus on any of that. He couldn't focus on anything but Ford as he spoke. "I thought you were supporting me... but you were holding me back. And I'm finally so certain of something," he could hear Ford's voice cracking, "you don't even believe me... I need someone to believe me... and help me."

One of Stan's eyes was already swollen shut, but the other was untouched, open and looking up to Ford as he sat on his stomach, tears rolling down his cheeks. His gaze moved from Ford's face to his left hand, his dominant one, and saw the knuckles were split and bleeding. Even with the deep pain he was feeling in his face and in his head, Stan couldn't stop himself from thinking about Ford. He took the hand Ford used to punch him and squeezed it.

"I'm sorry..." Ford looked at Stan as he spoke in a cracked voice, his eyes red from the tears and the bandages on his head long since fallen off. They had both been through their own hell in some way. He didn't know how Ford had felt and it hurt more than the physical pain that his brother saw him as an anchor weighing him down instead of a helping hand. "I'm sorry, Ford.." Ford moved off of his stomach and sat back on his thighs, allowing Stan to sit up and rub at his sore face. Everything was going to feel worse in the morning, but he could deal with that. As long as they could get things out now.

"Stanley..." One of Ford's hands moved up and wiped some of the blood from his face, but Stan moved it away in favor of wrapping his arms around the man and pulling him close, hugging him. He could feel Ford tense before he was hugged back, their heads resting on each other's shoulders.

"I'm sorry... I never wanted to weigh you down. I wanted to see you succeed in everything you did because it meant one of us could have a good life... I couldn't bear the thought of being without you, but I never wanted to hurt you.." His nose hurt as he tried to press it into the crook of Ford's neck and he settled for resting his forehead on his brother's shoulder. "I want to believe you so bad... but I'm scared you're only hurting yourself. You're working yourself to the bone and seeing you put that plate in your skull terrified me. I couldn't... if this was all because your mind was torturing you, I wanted you to get help. Professional help." Stan's voice cracked the entire time he spoke and his arms wrapped just a bit tighter around Ford's waist. He felt the other's hand run along his back before gripping at his shirt.

"You're the only medication I need, Stan... Just believe me." Taking a deep breath and swallowing roughly, Stan nodded his head and sat up, pulling away from Ford but keeping his arms wrapped around him.

"I'll try... that's all I can promise." The smile Ford gave him was soft but understanding. It was the best Stan felt he could do at the moment. With their thoughts and emotions out, they could try and patch things together and figure something out.

"Come on... I'll help you get cleaned up." Ford got out of Stan's lap and stood up, offering a hand to help the man up. Stan took it and righted himself, not letting go as they walked out of the attic.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Stan listened to Ford putting things away in the bathroom cabinet and stared at the floor near the furnace. His nose had been set and the bleeding had finally stopped, the splits on his lips unable to be properly taken care of but at least cleaned. The gash on his cheek was cleaned had butterfly bandages holding it together, painful but not unfamiliar to him. He held an icepack against the swollen eye, the skin discoloring quickly but the swelling going down the longer he held the ice there. Even Ford's hand had been treated and wrapped, every wound and injury taken care of after the bout they had. Stan looked towards the doorway as he heard the light in the bathroom click off and footsteps making their way back to the bedroom. He smiled slightly as Ford walked in and the expression was given back.

"How's your eye?" Stan pulled the icepack away so Ford could see, only for his brother's hand to guide it right back so he could keep icing it.

"Throbbing, but fine... you've really learned how to throw a punch over the years."

"I just caught you off guard. I'm sure you would have wiped the floor with me if given the chance." They both tried to joke about their actions but the humor fell through, their gazes meeting before darting off to look somewhere else in the room. Ford's hand stayed over Stan's as he held the icepack, his thumb brushing along the top as the other fingers curled around it. There was tension in the air but Stan wasn't sure how to dispel it. He wanted to say something but no words came to his mind. The silence only hung heavily in the air until Ford spoke up. "It wasn't a dream... was it?"

It took a moment for Stan's mind to catch up to what Ford was mentioning, unsure what he was talking about until he remembered what was said the night they kissed. His voice was lost as he glanced up at his brother, only for the gaze to fall as he shook his head. He could hear Ford take a deep breath and the hand holding his own squeezed before letting go. Stan's heart sank and he kept his gaze to the side until a hand cupped his cheek and guided his head up. Looking at Ford, he could see the anxiety lurking beneath his features.

"Do you want to talk about it?" As much as Stan had wanted to talk about it a week ago, that was the last thing he wanted to do now. But he didn't want to let it drop now that they were being open. Taking Ford's hand from his cheek, Stan pulled the man in between his legs and leaned in the rest of the way to kiss him. Unlike the one kiss they shared, things were different. They were both wide awake and clear of mind this time, meaning things didn't have to end with just that. Ford's arms wrapped around Stan's shoulders and Stan dropped the ice pack to the side so he could wrap his arms around the man's waist. One kiss was followed by another, only to be chased by another as the intensity started to deepen. Their noses brushed lightly against each other and Stan winced into the kiss, breaking it for a moment before one more was stolen. The kisses did eventually stop when one of the cuts on Stan's lips started bleeding again, the coppery taste being enough to separate them. Both of their faces were flushed as they looked at each other and offered small smiled. Stan tilted his head into Ford's hand as he felt one of them run through his hair, his eyes closing as he relaxed. The hand pulled back and Stan opened his eyes to look at Ford once more.

"Can I touch you, Stanley?" _As if you even need to ask_ was the first thing to pop into Stan's mind, though he refrained from saying it in fear of changing the mood of the moment.

"Only if I can touch you." Ford smiled and nodded to that, his arms moving from around Stan's shoulders to tug at his shirt. He lifted his arms so the shirt could be pulled off, his breath hitching as soon as Ford's hands were on him. It would have been easy for him to get caught up in it, humming softly to the way Ford's fingers ran along his chest and brushed his nipples, but he didn't want it to be one sided. His hands worked at the other's button up and pushed it off his shoulders, moving back on the bed and away just to give the other enough room to climb into his lap. And so Ford did, hands resting at his shoulders and squeezing.

Stan's own calloused hands started traveling along Ford's stomach and hips, listening to the sweet noises that escaped when his fingers ghosted along the small of his back. He ran his tongue along his lips and felt that the lower on stopped bleeding, leaning in only to fix them to the crook of Ford's neck so he could kiss him there. Ford's hips pressed down and ground against his as he ran his tongue over the skin, fingers curling against the man's waist and guiding him down to grind again. He gasped against Ford's neck as one of the man's hands moved down and groped him through his pants, his hips twitching as he muffled a moan against the skin. 

"I've got you..." Ford's voice was hushed and the words were spoken directly in his ear, making his hips twitch again and his fingers dig into his brother's hips. He pulled one of his hands back when he was able to focus his mind, slipping it to the front so he could palm Ford through his own pants. The moan that echoed into his ear was enough to make him squeeze again, fingers clumsily working at the button and zipper so he could get rid of a layer. Both of Ford's hands worked at his own but failed with Stan's stomach in the way. Ford pulled back to push at Stan's shoulders and Stan fell onto the bed, looking up to the other. Pants were undone on both parts and taken off before they were touching each other again, hands running along each other's bodies.

Ford climbed back into Stan's lap and wrapped a hand around both of their erections, eliciting a groan from Stan as his head tilted back. It had been a long while since he was touched like this, and he knew Ford was the same with the way his hips bucked and ground against him at just that bit. Their hips rolled as they were stroked off, Stan leaning up some of the way as his brother leaned down so they could kiss again. It was more rushed this time, desperate with desire and not even the taste of blood from his split lip was enough to separate them. Ford's free hand was pressed against the bed so he could hold himself up just as one of Stan's was used as leverage, leaving him one free hand to do whatever he wanted. The decision to wrap his hand around the one Ford was using to stroke them off was almost immediate, the added pressure making them both groan into the kiss. It wasn't long before Stan came, breaking the kiss as his head tilted back and he moaned with his climax. His hips thrust and his body shivered as Ford started kissing along his neck, feeling the vibration from the groan as he came as well. Their hips stilled, and though they let go of their softening cocks, their hands still gripped each other, fingers entwining.

It took a minute for them to come down from the high, Ford lying on top of Stan even with the mess they made. Tired smiles were exchanged and Stan wrapped his arms around his brother, pulling him close for a gentle kiss before lying down fully on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes, squeezing the hand he was holding then letting his grip relax.

"We should take a shower..." Ford was the first to speak up, leaving Stan to nod to the sentiment before adding his own two cents.

"Together?"

"Yeah..." He could hear the smile in his brother's voice and it made a broader one tug at his own lips.

"Wanna lie here for a little longer first?"

"Yeah..." And so they did, both of their eyes shut as Ford rested his head on Stan's chest and listened to his heartbeat. The silence between them this time was comfortable. Stan couldn't think of anything that would make the moment any better. Of course, Ford spoke up again. "Love you, Stanley..." Stan squeezed the hand he was holding before bringing it up to his lips and kissing it.

"Love you too, Ford."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so I don't mislead anyone, just because this chapter ended well doesn't mean that the last one is going to go as smoothly. Just prepare to be hurt.


	10. Burden In My Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But whose hand carries the heaviest?

That night, they both sleep soundly. After a lazy shower together and a few more kisses, they fall asleep wrapped around each other, Ford tucked under his chin once more and Stan's arms wrapped around his waist. Their position was comfortable, one Stan thought he could easily get used to. Before Ford had started pulling away from him, he did get used to waking up like that. Now he thought he could maybe feel this for as long as they both wanted it.

The next morning was calm. They both tended to each other's wounds and changed bandages that needed to be replaced. The wound on Ford's head wasn't healed completely, but it was far enough along that neither of them felt he needed to wrap his head anymore. It was an awkward look with a patch of hair shaved away and the stitches in plain view, yet it was still easier to deal with than wrapping them every couple of hours after checking the surgical scar. Not much was said between the two of them, sharing their emotions and affections with gentle touches and kisses whenever they passed each other or wanted it.

Ford still did his research, but the way he went about it was less rushed and manic. Stan kept reading the journal or different papers when Ford needed to write something in there. Their night went just as soundly as their day, the two of them lying down together and sharing hushed words and soft touches to reaffirm how much they meant to each other. This cycle repeated itself over the next couple of days and the two of them were happy.

One morning, Stan woke up before Ford and watched as his brother slept. Holding onto one of his hands, he brushed his thumb on top and entwined their fingers together. If Ford had slept the entire day comfortably like that, Stan wouldn't have had any problem watching him the entire time. It was calming to see him so peaceful, nothing on his mind. A few minutes later, Ford began to stir and they looked at each other. Smiling, they leaned in and kissed each other, Stan wincing as his nose was pressed and pain traveling behind his eyes. It would be a while before that was healed all the way. When the kiss was broken, they laid there and looked at each other, messing with one another's fingers and squeezing.

"What are you planning on doing today?" Stan spoke up, clearing his throat to get the croak of sleep out of his voice. Ford only laid there and stared for a moment before bringing Stan's hand up to kiss the top of it.

"I've got to show you something. It'll be all the proof you need to believe what I've gone through." Though they hadn't talked about it since then, Stan had been trying to suspend his disbelief just to look at thing from Ford's perspective. If this was going to help him do that and truly believe everything he wrote about was real, then he wanted to find out what it was.

"Alright... Wanna get dressed first?"

"That would be best." One more kiss was shared before they got up and got dressed, Stan in a tee shirt and sweat pants and Ford in his usual slacks and button up. Stan looked out the window and towards the snow before turning his gaze back towards Ford.

"Do we have to go outside for whatever you're going to show me?" Ford looked back at him and shook his head as he sat down on the bed and pulled on his socks.

"No, but you might want to wear shoes." Though he was curious as to why, he complied and slipped on a pair of socks as well, heading out of the bedroom with Ford and walking towards the door. The both of them retrieved their shoes and slipped them on, Stan following Ford as he went to the kitchen and got his journal before heading to the storage room. From there, they went through the door that was right next to where they came out, going down the stairs and to the elevator. Stan hadn't been down there since he had to clean up the blood, tools, and vomit that were left behind after his brother's impromptu cranial surgery. He felt his stomach turn over just from remembering that. a shudder traveling along his spine.

"What are we doing here?" Ford pressed a few buttons in the keypad and the elevator door opened, gesturing towards Stan as they climbed into the car.

"You'll see." The trip down wasn't long but they went past the only level Stan had been on so far. A couple more down and the doors opened up to a control room. He followed Ford as he walked in, looking around to the panels and walls. There was a glowing symbol on the side of the control desk, his hand going near it and feeling the immense heat from half a foot away. "Don't touch that." Ford's voice cut through the silence and Stan looked away, his arms crossing over his chest.

"I wasn't going to. I can feel how hot it is." Stepping through the threshold and into the larger room, his arms immediately dropped to hang at his sides and his mouth opened at the machinery before him. A giant inverted triangle with a hole in the middle, surrounded by wires and pipes that ran directly towards it or into it. So much of what Ford was studying and doing was beyond his comprehension, but this was on a completely different level. "What is this...?" Ford kept his back turned towards Stan, facing the machinery as he spoke.

"It's a trans-universal gateway. A punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension... Bill tricked me into making it to try and get into this dimension." Either Ford wasn't as crazy as he seemed or his mind was so far gone he thought this was real. Though he wasn't certain enough to admit it, he was started to believe everything his brother told him. "But he can't come here. If he does, it means the end of days as we know it. I can't let him get his hands on anything I've made here. Just shutting this down and hiding the other journals might not be good enough."

"So... what? You want me to help you dismantle this thing?" Stan could do that. He always had been good at breaking things, even if he didn't mean to.

"I wish it were that easy..." Ford sighed before finally turning back towards Stan, the two of them facing each other as he stepped closer. "You're the only person I can trust to take this." The journal was handed over to him, Stan holding it in his hands and looking from the weathered cover to his brother. "I have something to ask of you... Remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?" After how well the past few days had gone, Stan was hoping he knew where this was going, but he waited. He didn't want to interrupt, though a hopeful smile tugged at his lips. "Take this book, get on a boat, and sail away as far as you can. To the edge of the earth... bury it where no one can find it."

Just like that, his heart sank and his smile dropped. They stared at each other and Stan was hoping he didn't hear what was just said. This had to be some cruel joke, some terrible nightmare that was trying to pull him away from his brother. But the look in Ford's eyes was serious and the book in his hands felt too real.

"That's it...?" His voice was soft as he spoke and Ford's face pinched as he heard the pain in his tone. 

"Stanley... you don't understand. You'll be safer without me. If Bill finds me... the things he'll do to you. Just because you mean something to me." Stan's grip tightened on the book and he grit his teeth, his knuckles going white and his brows furrowing as they stood there. Processing it took a moment because he didn't want to believe what he was hearing. They had just gotten each other back in their lives. Things were clear between them and they seemed happy.

"So... what? What was everything we've been through this past month?" The pain was more evident in his tone as his voice cracked, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the book as hard as he could. "What was everything we've done in the past few days? How could you..." His breathing shook and as Ford reached out to him, Stan stepped back and recoiled some. His eyes were wide with pain and anger and he didn't know what he would do if Ford touched him right now.

"I was going to tell you everything the first day you came... but you were frozen stiff. And the more you were around, the more I wanted to keep you around. But I can't let you be in danger because you're with me. I can't let Bill get that book." The book. That was the most important thing, wasn't it? That Stan get rid of it on his own, the both of them being alone. If it wasn't for Ford's insistence that he was safer when he wasn't around him, Stan thought he could have come back. But that wasn't the case, was it?

"You want me to get rid of this book?" Stan stepped away from Ford and towards the control desk in the other room, standing near the threshold as he flipped the book open to a few pages. "Fine. I'll get rid of it right now." He held the book out towards the burning symbol on the side. Even from that distance, he could see Ford tense up completely before running towards him.

"No! You don't understand!" Ford's hands grabbed at the book before Stan could press it against the symbol, the two of them tugging it back and forth, panic in Ford's eyes and pain in Stan's.

"You said you wanted me to have it, so I'll do what I want with it!" Ripping it free from his brother's grasp, he shoved it near the symbol again before Ford cried out.

"My research!" Ford lunged at him and the two of them went tumbling to the ground. The book fell out of Stan's hands and Ford was jumping right up to grab it. Stan followed almost immediately and tripped his brother, snatching the book up from the ground and moving towards a corner of the room. "Stanley, give it back!" Once more, Ford tackled him and set him hurtling into one of the control desks on the side, the machine humming to life as he sat on a couple switches. Lights flashed but they were unregistered by the both of them.

"You want it back, you're gonna have to try harder than that!" He shoved at Ford's face but the man had his hands on the book, Stan following after to try and rip it out. Pain and anger were all that were controlling his actions now, unable to stop as they tugged at the book back and forth once more. "We just started figuring things out, you fuck! It could have been us forever! We could have been happy!" Tears stung his eyes and spilled down his cheeks as he glared at his brother.

"I can't give you a normal life!" Ford's foot planted itself in Stan's chest and he kicked back, shoving him up against the side of the control desk, the glowing symbol burning through his shirt too easily and branding his right shoulder. A scream erupted from Stan's lips at the pain that surged through him, feeling the skin and flesh peel off once he fell away from the symbol. "Stanley!" Ford was up and trying to move close to him, the book cradled against his chest. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Are you alri-" Ford was cut off as Stan swung a right hook at him, hitting the man square in the face and throwing him backwards with the impact. The book was dropped and a sob escaped from Stan's lips, the pain in his shoulder clouding his judgement and only feeding his anger further. His left hand went to his shoulder to try and steady himself, his right hand grabbing the book that had been dropped as he watched Ford stumble over. A lever was knocked aside and the portal started up, filling the room with a blue-white light. Once again, that barely registered with either of them.

"Who said I wanted a normal life...?" He almost growled at his brother as Ford stood back up, taking a step back as Stan kept advancing. "It could have been just us! I don't care if it would be dangerous if I was with you! But if you treasure this research so much, you can have it!" He shoved the book into his brother's hands, pushing him backwards and off of his feet. Instead of hitting the ground, however, he floated in air. Suddenly all of the pain and anger was gone, replaced with confusion and fear.

"Stan - Stanley!" Ford cried out as he floated up towards the portal, Stan stepping forward, but missing any chance of grabbing him.

"Hey - what's going on? Stanford!" He took a few more steps forward and tried grabbing for his brother again, though he found himself stopping when his own feet tried floating off of the ground. Ford kept crying out for him as he stood there, looking around in a bewildered manner to try and find something to stop it. "What do I do?!"

"Do something - Stanley!" The book was thrown in his direction but Stan didn't try catching it. The last cry of his name sounded almost like an echo as Ford was sucked into the light of the portal, Stan watching as every piece of his brother disappeared into it, only for the machine to let out a burst of energy and light once he was gone. He was thrown back and landed on his badly burned shoulder, crying out in pain before sitting up. The light faded and the machine shut down, his brother's glasses dropping to the ground just in front of the portal.

"Stanford...?" This had to be some sick dream. This couldn't be real. He couldn't have lost his brother so quickly after everything they went through. He stood up and ran over towards the machine, banging on it with his fists. "No... Stanford! No no no!" He hit the metal every time he cried out and sobbed before turning towards the lever and lunging at it. He pulled as hard as he could but the switch wouldn't budge. Again and again he tried until the pain in his shoulder was unbearable to the point of nausea. He let go and carried himself on shaky legs towards his brother's glasses. Falling to his knees, Stan picked them up as the tears started rolling down his cheeks again. Fingers wrapped around the lenses and his hand started shaking as he doubled over himself. "Stanford..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the last chapter, but I'm going to add an epilogue. Counteract the pain with something nice just so I can feel better too.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decades later and all is becoming well.

Flashes of blue-white light, the sight of pale, glowing yellow eyes, and fists connecting with his face. The depictions were not clear but they were there, floating in the darkness of sleep behind closed eyes. It was too much to take at once but he felt as if he knew it already. His life was filled with both enough pain and clarity to last a someone else a couple of lifetimes. Remembering everything had proven to be difficult, especially when any memories that surfaced when he was asleep faded in the morning. They were back, but they didn't process in his mind. The echo of Ford calling his name and the gentle brush of lips against skin was all he was able to process before Stan roused from his sleep.

The light that was streaming in through one of the portholes illuminated the room fairly well, though Stan still had trouble seeing everything with his cataracts. But he didn't have to see clearly to know where he was, or who he was with. The scent of the man's skin his nose was pressed against it was all too familiar, as was the way the man relaxed under his hand as he ran it along the small of his back. There were three things Stan was certain of in that moment. The first was that he was on a boat, sailing around the world and having a fair amount of adventures. They had docked at a town in Maine and spent the night at the marina, planning to rest for a few days before starting off on their next voyage. The second was that he was in bed with Ford, in almost the same spot they had fallen asleep in the night before before.

The third was that his brother was awake.

Stan turned his head up to find himself tucked under Ford's chin, one of his brother's arms wrapped around his and a six fingered hand running through his hair. With the position they were in, he couldn't look at Ford clearly. Not that he wanted to pull away to do it, but he decided that if he couldn't really see him, then he could close his eyes and focus on the way they were holding each other.

"Finally awake?" Ford's voice was quiet as he spoke, Stan humming in response before pressing his nose into his brother's collarbone. There was an echo left from the dream that almost made him wince, expecting his nose to be broken, but there was no pain.

"Our positions are different from what they used to be." The hand running through Stan's hair stopped and he could feel Ford move slightly under his own hold.

"Starting to remember more?" Stan nodded his head slightly and gave a yawn, his fingers tracing meaningless symbols along the small of Ford's back and smirking when he felt him shiver. It made him want to tease Ford, knowing how sensitive he was there. But things were nice being as calm as they were now. As much as he wanted to stay tucked up against his brother, Stan pulled back so he could look at him, squinting slightly so the images were clearer before reaching and grabbing his glasses from the bedside table. Slipping them on, he rested his head back against the pillow. One of his hands moved up to Ford's head, brushing aside a thick lock of curly hair to see the scar he remembered all to clearly now.

"Be glad I can't remember you doing this to yourself clearly. Because recalling the amount I threw up then is almost enough to make me nauseous now." With his glasses on, he could see Ford's features pinch as the man seemed to recall the event. He was almost tempted to ask everything that happened, but not after he had just woken up. That could wait until a more appropriate time came about, if there ever was one. The painful expression faded after a moment and Ford smiled slightly at him.

"Please don't get nauseous. I don't want to have to clean the bedsheets and shower right now." A smirk tugged at Stan's lips and he chuckled, brushing his fingers along Ford's hip and letting the smirk broaden as heard a hitch in his brother's breathing.

"Hey, I'd be glad to help you wash off in the shower." Ford gave a look of mock disgust before chuckling.

"And the bedsheets?"

"You would've caused it. Your mess to clean." The two of them laughed and leaned in to rest their foreheads against each other. The hand that Ford wasn't running through Stan's hair moved to caress lightly along his arm, Stan's own hand stilling at his brother's hip and brushing his thumb along the curve. They laid there for a few minutes before Stan leaned in and kissed Ford, the affection being returned. Pulling back, they looked at each other and Stan raised his hand to cup his brother's cheek.

"You alright?" Ford asked as Stan kept quiet, the man nodding his head after a moment.

"Yeah... just missed you a lot." Stan would say he was becoming more sentimental in his old age, but he had always been the more emotional out of the both of them. Ford tilted his head into the touch before turning it so he could press a kiss to his palm.

"I missed you too... every day I was traveling the dimensions."

"I ruined your life."

"We're making up for those missed years now." But Stan felt it would never be enough for all of the time he screwed Ford out of. All of the years he could have tried to enjoy himself. As if Ford knew what he was thinking, Stan found himself being pulled in for another kiss, soft and gentle and breaking after a few seconds. "I've forgiven you, Stanley... you need to forgive yourself."

"I will." _Eventually_. _Maybe_. Their hands moved so they could hold each other, fingers entwining as Ford brought them to his chest. Stan squeezed his hand and closed his eyes, feeling his glasses being pulled off and hearing them be set aside so they could rest for a little longer. They closed any distance between them and locked their legs together, foreheads resting against each other once more.

"I love you, Stanley..."

"I love you too, Stanford."


End file.
